


The Sundry Tales of an Elven Stowaway

by aalgorithm



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Bosmer (Elder Scrolls), Dawnguard DLC, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim Full Playthrough, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 08:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25347889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalgorithm/pseuds/aalgorithm
Summary: A Formalized Collective Account of the Laat Dovahkiin Ianthe Haven by Lucia Haven - ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Kudos: 17





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> In between writing projects, I find myself constantly compelled to recount the entire story of my Dragonborn OC. This has the potential to be absolutely endless.
> 
> The story is compiled between historical documentation/primary sources interspersed with the actual account of my character written as though it were a novel. I hope that description makes enough sense and it's easy to detect while reading.
> 
> I am guaranteed to make inaccuracies in Elder Scrolls' lore; if you must correct me, please do so kindly. And there is no guarantee I will go back and remedy it. This is my shitshow of a passion project :)

#  _Preface_

As I sit down by candlelight, having received the last required essay via courier earlier this afternoon for the completion of this project, I find myself ruminating on how I used to complain about my parentage. While I was immeasurably grateful for my adoption – words still fail to articulate the potential grim and grave future from which I was rescued – as I grew older and older, my namesake grew harder to bear. I digress to mention that, among my family, there were ample reasons to stop and stare and marvel. We lived in many homes, entertained friends of all races, lacked a definitive male presence in our familial structure, among other things.

But as I grew older, fledging into adolescence, my mother Ianthe’s title as the _Laat Dovahkiin_ managed to crawl the deepest under my skin. It wriggled there, just beneath the surface, and for many years as I endured the long gazes of reverence, the applause when we entered a room, the way the guards yielded to her very presence, and the repugnance with which various extraneous elite regarded our clan. It took its toll and I grew bitter. I longed to run away; I longed to shed the name Ianthe had never even demanded I take on.

However, when the weight grew too much for my adoptive sister, I understood that I needed to stay. I will not dwell on the happenings of Runa Fair-Shield Haven, for I am sure the general public is both aware and tired of the constant query. But I will pause to admit that her departure from our lives became the source of a great pain in both my parents, a pain from which Ianthe never fully recovered. And, thus, I remained.

Today, I say in full sincerity that I am happy to have done so, for my life would be void had I not remained under the constant care, tutelage, and guidance of my mothers. If nothing else, I would never have been given such candid and frank access to the Bards College in Solitude and the College at Winterhold, to which I am eternally grateful and whose professors have been of an immeasurable value to me during the curation of this text. I would never have been given the freedom to pursue my own love for academia and historical curation had my parents not given me the life required for it and the beloved encouragement. Had Ianthe not sympathized with my downtrodden, barely eight-year-old self on the streets of Whiterun some seventy-five years ago, I cannot say where I would be in this moment today.

I implore you, dear readers, to scrub your minds of the biases you have accumulated regarding my mother and her life story. I am acutely aware that this account of her achievements, her downfalls, her interpersonal dealings, and everything in between is hardly the first of its kind. When I set about designing this project, I paid careful analysis to the ways in which I could set aside my work from the others.[1] During this consideration it dawned on me that, should my project see the light of day as intended, accusations of unfair bias and nepotism were sure to arise given my obvious familial connection to Ianthe Haven. Soon after, the format of this chronicle was decided upon.

Each notable episode of my mother’s life is demarcated via a patchwork of primary and secondary sources combined with historical commentary (reviewed by myself for truthfulness and relevancy). The sources compiled in this text range widely from firsthand accounts from individuals who interacted with her prior to the healing of the Time Wound, miscellaneous interviews conducted over the years (a great deal of which are dated after the Time Wound’s healing and after the Greybeard Concordat of 4E205), my mother Serana’s personal writings, among other pieces of historical value I have spent many years accumulating. All work will be credited to its individual sources.

My hope is, therefore, that the wide variety of contributions present in this account of my mother’s life will convince all readers to reflect on Ianthe Haven in a new light. She was more than just the final piece in a timeless prophecy, though such is hard to accept considering the weight of that action alone. My mother was a refugee, a prisoner, a mercenary, a thane of many holds across Skyrim, a thief, a legendary archer, a wife, a mother, and a friend. I know that she would never accept her legacy being limited to that which she had no choice in. Her business as Dovahkiin was often her least favorite topic of discussion, believe it or not. She much preferred bragging about the amount of gold she had snuffed from underneath wealthy Stormcloak merchants’ noses and telling frightening elven folktales to my sister and I underneath the stars.

\- Lucia Haven

[1] Mursha gro-Shub’s “Our Southward Savior: the _Laat Dovahkiin’s_ Femininity Against a Dominant Masculine Prophecy” was both a priceless source to me and provides a unique perspective; it remains one of the most respectful accounts on my mother’s life to date.


	2. Passage to Skyrim

##  Bosmer Immigration Patterns Following the Vampiric Scourge of the Valenwood (4E179 – 202)

By Aelar Windstorm

The Valenwood, the original home of all Bosmer people, remained a largely separate entity from the mainland of Skyrim throughout the third and the beginning of the fourth eras. Much of the Bosmer population prior to the third era had been wiped from Skyrim as a result of the Knahaten Flu and, fearing that the sickness was the manifestation of Nirn’s wrath at their perceived mistreatment of the planet, the Bosmer began returning in droves to their native land.

These immigration patterns stuck for hundreds of years and is mainly attributed to cultural and religious differences between the dominant Nords in Skyrim and the Bosmer.

The divide between Skyrim’s governance and the Bosmer was only steepened when the Imperial Legion denied the Valenwood assistance War of the Blue Divide[1] between the Bosmer, the invading Khajit forces, and the Altmer. The Valenwood was left partially devastated and weakened, having ceded many of its ports to the Altmer forces, and cultural attitudes shifted even further toward isolationism. Immigration outside of their native country halted almost entirely around the turn of the fourth era as attention shifted toward the Thalmor occupation in Skyrim.

This trend underwent a rapid change, however, during the Vampiric Scourge of the Valenwood which took place officially between years 4E179 and 202. While no thorough documentation of this period has been uncovered, suspicions among the Bosmer state that the Altmer, unhappy with the amount of land and ports ceded to them at the end of the War of the Blue Divide, began shuttling vampires from ports near Riften into the Valenwood countryside in order to collect bounties from the Empire, claiming to have eliminated vampiric targets.

Vampires had gone largely unreported in the Valenwood prior to this era; thus, the Bosmer found themselves largely unprepared. For over twenty years the vampires grew in numbers and utilized methods of guerilla warfare to destroy entire forests, lure unsuspecting elves into their lairs, and send the newly-made vampires back to their home villages in order to continue the cycle. The Blood Moon War[2] began in 4E180 and continued officially until 4E204. The deciding blow in favor of the Boserm is largely credited to be the defeat of Vampiric Lord Harkon by the Skyrim vigilante faction called the Dawnguard.

Bosmer revisited their ancient immigration patterns in attempts to escape the bloodthirsty vampires, and many returned to Skyrim, hoping the Civil War between the Empire and the Stormcloaks would provide enough of a distraction for them to slip back into Nord society largely unnoticed. Their departures were conducted in secret and oftentimes in small groups so as to reduce the chances of being discovered by a patrol of nearby vampires. Bosmer immigrants were known to have to come to Skyrim with little belongings beyond their custom-made bows, quivers, arrows, and Bosmer prayer books.

There is no record of the Bosmer settling down in any particular location in Skyrim; most made the dangerous journey through Cyrodil and, taking the southern White Pass, they either departed west toward Falkreath Hold or the Rift.

Still, Bosmer have yet to establish any permanent communal residence on Skyrim. They are regarded universally as foreigners, though cultural attitudes among Nords and Bretons are more favorable towards the wood elf than they are the Dark or High Elves. Finally, High Elves’ opinions regarding the recent increase in Bosmer immigration have yet to be documented.

[1] Unknown, “Pocket Guide to the Empire, Third Edition: Valenwood,” 41-93.

[2] Ibid.

##  Escape

Mother told her to leave with blood on her hands. She held her palms up to her, prayer-like, wide-eyed, crazed, and told her to leave. Mother left father bleeding out from the neck and told her to leave. She stepped over his lifeless body, blew out her candle, instructed her daughter to gather her belongings, and told her to leave.

The daughter didn’t say goodbye to her father. She didn’t touch his cold cheeks nor his scarlet throat. She didn’t watch as the flow of ichor grew slower and slower, as the bloodied remnants of his vocal cords grew flaccid and dry as they were blown by the humid, nighttime breeze. She didn’t breathe. Instead she slipped on her pack, stepped into her shoes, grabbed a handful of arrows, and draped her bow over her lean back.

The daughter descended from the tree with unseeing eyes, scaled down the thick vines whose grooves had been written like Mer scripture into her own hands after years and years of use. Her mother watched her leave, though she couldn’t quite recall ever looking up to see her one last time, nor could either recall their last words to one another. She feared that, should she try to speak, that her throat would shred apart just like her father’s. And by the time her feet padded delicately against the forest floor, the moon was fully shielded by the foliage, the shimmer of her mother’s black eyes was gone, and she was perfectly alone with her beating heart.

She knew they could hear it. They could hear a mortal’s pulse pumping the blood from their head to their toes. That’s what her father had told her as a child, during his nighttime horror stories that she never could parse through. They were so incredible, so striking, and so petrifying that they couldn’t be real. In her youth, she wouldn’t let them be real, or else she knew she would be unable to sleep that night.

And she sometimes would look across the stove fire to her mother, who always did the washing in the evening as father spun his tales, and she would beg her for context, for an explanation, for relief, but she never delivered. She let her father describe to her how the daemons could extend their canine teeth and claw out the greatest Argonian’s throat without flinching.

It took her until her twenty-first year to witness what he’d so staunchly warned her about.

They came at night, like they always did. Like they were supposed to. Like he’d told her they would. Two crawled up the length of the tree, the other ascended the same vines and branches she used to catapult herself back to ground level. She watched them from below, returning from a late-night hunting session, with awe. They were majestic; encircled in a scarlet glow, they ascended into the family’s hut with such silence she was unsure if she’d hallucinated the entire ordeal.

At once, a straggler was on top of her, hissing into my ear and chomping at the bit for her jugular. Remembering to keep quiet, lest the daemon shriek and summon more of its clan, she held her breath and scrambled for her knife. She tossed both of them to the floor, ignoring how its nails clawed and gashed and ripped. She slashed with the tiny blade, chewing her lip to remain silent. Right, left, then back again. The ghostly sheen left its eyes and she was doused in black pus that squirted from its face, the daemon substitute for mortal blood.

Upon its final moan of death, she shoved its body away, donned in black and crimson cloaks, and bolted up the tree, only to find her father beaten purple, without an esophagus, and her mother cowered in the broom cupboard.

Six and a half minutes had passed since and she was now darting between the towering trees, using their leaves and branches for shadow and peering into the inky blackness for any trace of their eyes. They stuck out like blood-soaked fireflies amidst even the darkest of nights. She knew this; she’d come close enough before, smelled their ancient breath as it tiptoed like poison gas through the night. She’d ventured far enough North to have been scared straight. And she’d trained well enough to obey her mother’s last wishes and leave.

It wasn’t until she reached the docks, however, that the concept of “leaving” began to run its laps around her head. No one from their village had left in over a year. Gaela was the last to depart, and no one had heard from her since. She never disclosed to where she was headed. Looking down unto the vessel, the daughter had no blueprint.

But there was a boat before her. It swayed and rocked against the gentle, still waters some tens of miles outside of Cyrodil. There were oars and blood smears lining the wooden interior; it wasn’t from the Valenwood. The Altmer must have loaned it to the latest troop of daemons.

There was a boat before her and no other options; the longer she stood still, the harder her heart pounded against her ribs, and the closest the smell of her own blood crept to the daemons.

She stepped over the beachy shoreline and into the boat, never having traversed over water before, and cringed at the groan of the wood. She said a prayer to Nirn, asking for forgiveness for disavowing the sanctity of that which came from the trees, and gripped the oars with both hands, back turned against the forest from whence she’d came.

Still, there was silence.

Ianthe Haven, daughter of Thia and Perenn Haven, recalled the hunting stories her father would tell as they set out to march to Southpoint. He told her legends of eras past, of a great big land not so far away where dragons had once flown, where elves of all sorts communed together, and where warriors flourished. He told her of the wars, the famines, the magic, and the destruction. Perenn Haven would point, standing tall on the shores of Southpoint, and gesture toward a line of mountain tops that Ianthe couldn’t see, and tell her that, one day, she was destined to make it there. Beyond Cyrodil. Beyond Hammerfell.

She was to cross the White Pass. He felt it in his bones. Nirn whispered it to him at night through the chirp of cicadas, through the rustle of tree branches against the hut’s roof, through his dreams.

That’s where Ianthe would go. If that’s where Nirn guided her, then she would obey. She would mourn later; Nirn allowed plenty of time for grief. But, in that moment, as another onslaught of daemonic eyes emerged from the shrubbery and onto the muddy shoreline, Ianthe paddled away into the abyss of childhood legend.

She didn’t feel the calling yet, though she would. In time, it would beckon to her from the skies, taller than the trees it was in her blood to scale and leap to.


	3. Happenstance

##  Journeys Through the Southern Forest: A Fourth Era Cultural Analysis of Falkreath Hold

##  Volume 2: Citizenry; Essay 5: Daily Life at the Forge

By Herst Flat-Eye

On my tenth day in Falkreath’s center village dwelling I had the pleasure of spending ample time with the Hold’s most notable blacksmith: a Nord by the name of Lod. Upon first glance, the forge and Lod’s attached dwelling appealed to the senses as a bland and ordinary armory. Stationed just a few yards down the road from the Dead Man’s Drink Inn, I assumed the latter to be the greater hub for Falkreath sociability and community. However, but a few minutes into my stay with Lod I was proven foolishly wrong.

Lod ought to be considered an oral historian of his own making; he boasts a stupendous memory and capacity for storytelling I have yet to see in such prime form in all my travels across the southern regions of Skyrim. I quickly grew to regard him as the source for all my questions regarding Falkreath’s chronicle. While the resident Priest of Arkay found my questions about the impressive size of Falkreath’s graveyard to be (understandably) invasive, Lod was eager to fill me in. He expressed to me the incessant rumor that, in years past, both the memorial statues of Hoag Merkiller and Kjoric the White[1] were vandalized by passing Altmer vigilantes prior to the Thalmor occupation of Skyrim as an act of protest against Nord Talos worshippers.

Our conversation eventually progressed beyond the ghostly folktales and legends of war heroes haunting the Jarl’s residence and finally ventured into the nature of his work. My prior assumptions regarding the populous of Falkreath were quickly – albeit abrasively – proven false; they are not a nonviolent people. Lod was quick to refute this claim of mine, adding a disclaimer that “folks ‘round here don’t much care for fighting amongst theyselves. They prefer challenging their neighbor to a good hunt.” However, Falkreath citizens take pride in the sharpened edge of their arrows rather than their bulging muscles, as one would observe in hardier environments like Markarth.

Lod expressed an acute fondness for the arrows he forged as they are the most notable weapon across the Hold. The southern forests of Skyrim provide ample game to be hunted; much of the Falkreathean diet is based in deer and bear meat for this very reason. Lod detailed his arrow forging process to me, pausing only to add that the iron arrows, despite their pliability and increased tendency to snap when compared with Lod’s glass arrows, were the forge’s best seller.

I found this shocking; my time in Riften was quite literally littered with glass and elven arrows being sold to me by the armful in the marketplace.[2] Lod regarded both my mentioning of Riften and my apparent ignorance with a bemused disgust and divulged to me the most lucrative of anecdotes about his time as chief blacksmith. He said the following,

“What, haven’t you ‘eard about my most valued customer? It was only the Dovahkiin herself that bought from me a full quiver of arrows before she was taken into Imperial custody. I reckon it was _my_ arrows that granted her escape from Helgen some two months ago rather than any blasted _dragon_.”

I elected, for the sake of conversational peace and etiquette, to forgo Lod’s own ignorance regarding the state of dragons in Skyrim during mid-Frost Fall 4E201 and instead pried deeper into this new nugget of information. I was familiar with the newly infamous Ianthe Haven and her regaled, unconfirmed status as the Dovahkiin (every historian from Solitude to Cyrodil was terribly aware, as it was the only story to clog the grapevine of current events). I had already resolved to travel to Helgen to study the ruins once my work in Falkreath Hold was completed. I, however, was never aware of any appearance by the Dovahkiin in Falkreath and, seeing as though her whereabouts had gone largely unreported following the devastation at Helgen, I knew Lod’s knowledge to be invaluable.

He informed me of the following,

“It was early in the morning. Morndas, if’n I remember correctly. I was just rekindling my forge before the rest of the town was up ‘n about, and I saw a speck come dashing down from the backroads. It wore a hood and looked as skinny as a Hammerfellian sword. I watched it move until I realized it was comin’ for me. It dumped a pile of silver in my lap – hadn’t even been cast into a septim yet, by the gods – and demanded all the arrows I had. Silver won’t do it for glass or elven arrows, so I threw ‘em a quiver of iron arrows. And then they were gone.”

I asked, following his colorful description, how he was sure Ianthe Haven had graced his forge and not some other castaway thief fleeing Imperial law. He had an answer at the ready.

“Because I done saw her eyes! Black as night, they are! Black as night and surrounded by that Bosmer war paint they smear all over theyselves. And when Imperials started posting up her wanted papers across the Hold, I knew I’d seen her. Bosmer don’t show up ‘round here very often, of course. Due to the prejudice, probably.”

And while the rest of my time spent with Lod was filled mostly by his tedious gossip, that which one could encounter at any tavern across Skyrim, punctuated only by the metallic clink of his hammer against steel, I knew I’d stumbled across a vital piece of the Dovahkiin puzzle.

I owe a great debt not only to Lod the blacksmith but to the curious culture of rumor-sharing that thrives in the quaint city of Falkreath. I knew not, some six years ago when I first made this journey to the southernmost Hold, that Falkreath would become such a hotspot for the Laat Dovahkiin Ianthe Haven. At this stage in time, I was undecided as to whether her legend was true or if she was just a Bosmer immigrant gone insane at the violence that plagued her homeland. But the trees in Falkreath speak the same tongues as the citizenry. They speak the truth disguised as speculation, draped in breezy green and brown, begging to be unfurled and uncovered.

[1] Mythmaker, Taleon. “The Crown of Freydis.”

[2] Flat-Eye, Herst. “Peace Purloined: An Intimate Examination of Ethical Thievery in Riften,” 46-52

## A Stranger in the Strangest Land

Ianthe was pleased as she scaled the latest peak of the White Pass and looked unto the next drove of terrain before her. Trees, evergreen, oak, and redwood, emerged from the landscape like monuments to the early-morning sky, touched ever so-slightly by Last Seed’s typical humid dewfall. These trees were familiar; their shades drew up a great comfort in her breast. She’d felt rejuvenated, nighttime bugs buzzing their last renditions about her nose, crawling underneath her thin cotton hood. She’d felt ready to complete her full passage into Skyrim.

The town, she would soon deduce, was a mistake.

Skyrim animals regarded Ianthe with a skepticism she had yet to encounter in the wilderness. Her timid, benign whispers fell onto deaf ears; they did not rescind their animosity but instead continued to defend their territory from a safe distance until she’d passed by. She was okay with this arrangement, having stumbled onto one too many a bear den on her descension from the White Pass for comfort. Thus, she needed armaments.

She was about to sharpen her iron dagger against a nearby rock when she noticed the wooden bridge peeking through the foliage, a structure of stone, rope, and lumber from the nearby trees. Ianthe recognized it only through pictures, understood it to be the very skin, the essence, of the tree trunks stripped off and used for unnatural construction. The sight turned her stomach. And, amidst the rumbling tides of hunger, she nearly stumbled in her final steps off the cliffside.

“No Bosmer here,” she reminded herself aloud, pulling up the greyish fabric of her hood at the onset of sunrise. “Forgive the imbecilic Nords, o’ Y’ffre.”

Ianthe walked toward the grouping of civilization in such a way that her dagger was concealed beneath the swaying cloth of her cloak and the lumps of her bow strung round her back were hidden as well as possible. She kept her eyes glued to the dirt road beneath her, held her breath as she passed beneath the bridge, and scanned her new surroundings.

No one was stirring yet, it seemed. The town violated her preconceptions about Skyrim – specifically Nord – culture, one that was adventurous, violent, action-packed, and relentless. The taverns, longhouses, chicken coops, and impious lumber mills were sleepy. A wide stream pressed against the wooden structural beams of the mill until they creaked slowly in the tepid waters. Birds chirped, not cawed, overhead, as the smell of faraway nirn root wafted into Ianthe’s nose. All was still.

Ianthe took a back route away from the town’s central path and crossed around the rear of the largest structure adorned with green and grey flags, in the center of which was an artistically rendered buck. Its antlers guided Ianthe forward, its eyes keeping contact with her as she traversed. When she finally emerged from the rear of the longhouse, a distant clanking nose met her ears. She perked up; ahead, some forty paces, was the faint yellow and orange glow of a smithy.

Ianthe’s heart leapt in her chest. She ducked behind a particularly tall bush of snowberries in order to glean if the post was occupied. She watched, stifling her breaths, as a broad individual with a head of clean-cut red hair paraded about the smoking stench of ore, illuminated by the jaundiced heat of his work. Ianthe jangled the silver pieces inside her tunic’s pocket, clenched them tight, before resolving to move forward, humming against her throat to check that her voice still worked alright.

“Excuse me?”

The blacksmith sent his hammer down hard onto a thick strip of iron laid flat on his anvil. The resulting clink rang like a metallic bell in Ianthe’s ears. Her shoulders shrunk against her person as she pulled her hood down further over her eyes and tried again.

“Excuse me…sir?”

A second clink; Ianthe approached.

“Sir, I’m sorry to be a bother to you, but I was wondering if –”

“Heavenly Talos above!”

The blacksmith jolted in place, startled at Ianthe’s advance, and sent his hammer flying. It soared from the porch on which he worked and into the surrounding wilderness until it landed embedded in the wall of mountainous rock that surrounded the somnolent municipal.

“Ay! What the bloody hell did’ja do that for?”

The blacksmith turned to face Ianthe with a streak of blackish grime running across the bridge of his nose. Sweat pooled down his arched brow, still pinned in an expression of irritated shock.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just stumbled into your town, you see, and I was looking for some help. You’re the only person up and about, so –”

“Well of-bloody- _course_ I’m the only one up ‘n about at this blasted hour! This whole town’s full of sleepers! Doesn’t give you the right to run up and scare a man, now does it?”

Ianthe, watching as he descended from his haunches and a normal pace of breath returned to her lungs, shook her head no, feigning sympathy while wondering just how in the world a simple advance of two steps justified such ferocity.

“You’re _absolutely_ right, sir. My manners have fled me. I’m a foreigner, you see. Just arrived in your _great_ _land_ ,” she explained. “I mean no harm.”

He made to relax, until something caught his green-tinted eyes, and they widened once more. The blacksmith took two steps back, his hands searching for purchase on one of his various smithery tools.

“What, you about to rob me? Is that it?” he shrieked. Ianthe knew it was only a matter of time until the commotion set about the rest of the town. “Get your hand out of your sneak thief cloak and then I’ll talk.”

Ianthe, growing flustered, feeling eyes on the back of her head where they weren’t any, tore her hand from beneath her garment and flung several silver pieces toward the blacksmith. At first, he was fearful of the motion and arched his robust arm high above his head with a scythe gripped firm in his hand. Yet, when he saw the valuables, he paused.

“I just want to purchase some arrows from you and then I’ll be on my way,” she coaxed. “That’s all. I swear.”

His shoulders finally sank in one resounding motion. He let the scythe fall to his side, where it clattered against the porch’s wooden floor. A hearty chuckle bloomed in the depths of his chest and Ianthe watched as it overtook the rest of his expression, confused out of her wits.

“Oh, shite then. My apologies. It’s just been mighty stressful ‘round here, you know, with the Imperial Legion makin’ rounds all the time. And we’ve had a string of robbers comin’ up from the Rift, you see. I’m a bit on ege.”

Ianthe exhaled through her nose.

“I can imagine the stress you must be under.”

“Ay! Very stressful! Jarl Siddgeir told us to regard all strangers as ‘potential hostiles.’ Just doin’ my duty.”

“No one can fault you for that.”

They endured another moment without speaking. The blacksmith chortled to himself, wiping more grime across his cheeks that were speckled by a thin, new beard while Ianthe rolled on her toes. Eager to leave though too afraid to provoke him any further, she waited until he recalled her request.

“Oh!” he exclaimed. “You wanted arrows! I’ve just made some new ones. Let’s take a look…”

The longhouses’ doors began omitting slow, groaning clicks as more residents of this nowhere town started to emerge for a new week’s work. Ianthe assumed it was Morndas, should her calculations be correct, and assumed that there was to be an explosion of foot traffic any moment now.

“What kind’a material were you lookin’ for?” the blacksmith asked, hunched over a wooden crate. “I’ve got glass, steel, a few elven arrows, though Talos knows why I slaved tryin’ to mimic that crazy combination ‘a metals…”

“How much for the elven arrows?”

Instinctually, Ianthe tugged her hood once again.

“ _Elven_? Really?” he inquired. “Ah… _nine_ septims a piece.”

Ianthe went rigid, feeling the shapeless mounds of silver now growing clammy in her palm. This town was the first she’d come across and her father had explained that Skyrim folk didn’t accept Bosmer currency.

“I’ve…I’ve only got the silver pieces.”

“Well, ay, that’s what septims are made of, of course – _oh_.”

The blacksmith gazed down at Ianthe’s open palm, in which lay thirteen silver pieces of varying sizes and shapes. Squinting, as though his eyes were playing tricks, he attempted to peak underneath Ianthe’s hood.

“Where did you say you were comin’ from, lass?”

“I didn’t, sir.”

The blacksmith paused to run his finger across a particularly large lump of silver. His gaze stuck to Ianthe like tree sap.

“Eyes black as all hell…ay, you’re Bosmer, aren’t you?”

“If I say yes, does that make my silver any less valuable?”

He took four more silver pieces from Ianthe’s palm. With each swipe her heart sank and she was thankful for the shadows cast unto her expression by her cloak.

“No. You’re lucky you’re buyin’ from a smith and not a general goods store. I can at least use this for material.”

The blacksmith stuffed the silver pieces into his apron pocket and returned to the crate of arrows. After a moment of sifting through its contents, he retrieved a simple leather quiver full of plain brown arrows, the likes of which were familiar to Ianthe.

“M’afraid I can’t afford you the elven arrows on account of the price. But, could I do ya for a full quiver of iron?”

Ianthe received the quiver and removed one lean arrow from the quiver. It was light and agile in her hands, surprising given the hefty material that made up its head. In the Valenwood they used iron arrows for training and elven for their skilled ranger troops, of which Ianthe had once been a part.

“This’ll do just fine, thank you.”

She slid her new purchase beneath her cloak and adjusted her long bow. The blacksmith looked on in curiosity, still trying to sneak glances beneath her hood.

“I suggest scrubbin’ that war paint off, you know,” he suggested once Ianthe felt situated. “Don’t mean any offense by the notion. Just that there’s a mighty large amount of folks in Skyrim who don’t take too kindly to elves, whether they of the dark, high, _or_ Bosmer sort. Them shades around your eyes make you stick out like a grossly sore thumb.”

She did take offense to the suggestion, especially as she stood upon a structure made entirely of wood harvested – she assumed – without Y’ffre’s permission. But, for the sake of a speedy getaway, swallowed her venom and thanked him for the information.

“I’ll take that into consideration. Thank you.”

A group of children yelped in frantic joy behind them. Ianthe glanced at the noise and saw several persons opening the door of the largest longhouse and stepping inside, all armed with broadswords and shields.

“I must be going,” she continued. “May I ask one last favor of you?”

“I don’t hate you elven folks, so sure,” he conceded. “Ask away.”

“Might you direct me to the town called Riverwood? I’m to meet a contact of mine there though I’m rather without my sense of direction at the moment.”

The blacksmith nodded heartily and approached Ianthe further. Taking her by the shoulder, he pointed slightly northeast, overtop the run of steepled roofs.

“I know Riverwood well. They have a competin’ lumber mill up that way. You’re going to want to go northeast, though Id’ recommend taking a sharp right on your way out of here and making for Helgen, first. The signs will direct you. Otherwise you’ll probably run into bandits once you make it past the Falkreath watch tower.”

“Falkreath?” Ianthe questioned.

“That’s where we are right now, lass,” he laughed. “You really are new to Skryim, huh?”

“Quite,” she sighed. “So, take a right once I am outside Falkreath and follow the signs to Helgen. After that?”

“Keep followin’ the signposts. Once you pass the Stormcloak Camp, head due north. Oh, and stay away from those lads. They aren’t as kind to your folk as me.”

Ianthe dipped her, trying her best to file all the new jargon away despite understanding none of it. The new locales to memorizes combined with her distaste for the Nordic accent made the feat nearly impossible.

“I understand. Thank you, sir, for your help. I’m indebted to you.”

“Well, you ever need work, you can sure help old Lod around the smithy. Then we can call it even.”

“Lod, you said?  
The blacksmith nodded and pressed his calloused hand against his chest.

“Ay. Lod. The greatest smith in all of Falkreath Hold. Jarl Siddgein said so himself.”

Ianthe retreated down the steps of the smithy’s porch. Her feet crunched against the dirt road once more.

“Well, I thank you, Lod, the legendary blacksmith of Falkreath Hold, for making my first relations in Skyrim most pleasant. I hope to repay the favor one day.”

Ianthe Haven spun on her heels and away from Lod, his boiling pool of magma, and his sizzling metals. As she reached the demarcated exit of Falkreath proper, she heard his hearty, twanged voice call out to her,

“Lass! I never got your name, I reckon!”

and she pretended to not have heard it.


	4. Unbound

##  Dragon Attack on Helgen – Eyewitness Account Number Six of Eight: Imperial Captain Fari Poporel of Falkreath Hold

_Testimony recorded on Tirdas, the 18 th of Last Seed_ _4E 201_ by _Giraud Gemane, Dean of History of the Bards’ College of Solitude_

_When did you first hear the dragon?_

Poporel: I was trying to finish off the last of the Stormcloak executions for the day. We always finish our routes on Mondays, you see. They finish their rotations Sunday night, so by Monday morning a new wave has infiltrated, and we get them when they’re least expecting it. Lovely work, really. Keeps me on my toes. But yes. We were trying to finish the executions, and General Tullius was sticking it to Ulfric Stormcloak, when this great big roar blasted from the sky. Damn near flattened poor Hadvar, it was so loud.

_When did you first see the dragon?_

Poporel: See the thing? Well, let me think….oh! It was just as we were about to silence that little wood elf from the Valenwood. Got strung up in our rounds, she did. Was full of lip and tried to make a run for it. So, naturally, I threw her up on the chopping block first. I heard the dragon twice by the time her neck was prime for the cut, but just as the headsman had his axe raised, the damn thing landed on top of one of the Helgen keep masts. Ruined all the fun, if you ask me.

_Is it common for stragglers to get caught up in Imperial prisoner rounds?_

Poporel: Who’s asking?

_Only me, Captain Poporel._

Poporel: You aren’t one of those Legion critics, are you? You know, folks have been questioning our methods lately, as though the Stormcloaks aren’t growing more and more violent by the day! She had no records on her. The wood elf, I mean. She was a stowaway who illegally crossed the border. It’s only procedure. Besides, what if she’d been in cahoots with Ulfric? Would the damned hoity-toity liberals at the Bards’ College still have their stockings in a knot if she was his plug to our southern regions? You can never be too sure. That’s what General Tullius says.

_We aren’t critiquing your methods, Captain Poporel. How about you tell me more about the dragon._

Poporel: Gladly. Thing was huge, mind you. Sickly greenish grey color with two bloodred eyes and horns as long and sharp as great swords. He was all ribbed, too, as though he’d prick your finger if you laid your hand on his scales. You know, a woman’s got to wonder – how much would _those_ scales go for?

_I imagine quite the pretty septim. We’ve also received testimonies about the noises the dragon made upon landfall. Can you validate these reports?_

Poporel: That dragon was the noisiest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen! Not only was he dramatic enough to announce his arrival four bloody times over, but, the second he lands at Helgen, he sets off this roar like you’ve never heard. Like ten thousand voices screaming at once, except the voices were all under water, or something. Almost like canon fire. I can’t describe it. But he sure had much to say, if that’s what you’re getting at.

_Fascinating. Now, the city of Helgen was destroyed, unfortunately, and many of the prisoners escaped Imperial captivity. Are you worried about what this will do to the Empire’s morale? And the potential boost it will offer to Ulfric’s forces?_

Poporel: Look. We fucked up. You don’t have to tell me twice. But, between you and me, even _Ulfric_ was scared of that damn thing. We all were. Even me, if I’m being totally honest. So even if the Legion had a blunder, that dragon took plenty of Stormcloaks along with it. It isn’t there to aid Ulfric, nor is it here to aid us. As for the prisoners? I send them good will and good fortune. Gods know we’ll all need it, if dragons are back to stay.

_Do you suppose that wood elf was one of the escapees?_

Poporel: I suppose _maybe_. She didn’t seem like much of a fighter, though. You know how elves are. Flighty. Only in it for themselves. I’d put some gold down that she’s just a streak of charred elven skin on a wall in Helgen as we speak. But, I digress.

## Anamnesis

Ianthe was loth to admit it, but her eyes had, in fact deceived her. She was in the middle of sliding her new iron arrow back into its quiver and extending her scantily gloved hand when the dark form shifted and multiplied. She had assumed it to be another bear, the third she had seen since her departure from Falkreath, and was tired of wasting time aiming for its jugular and skinning the hides; the ghostly yellow tendrils were already swarming about her fingers, prepared to seize the beast’s mind, before reality dawned upon her.

It was no bear.

Voices sounded, hushed but still clear enough to discern betwixt the dense forest.

“Three o’clock. You take right side. I got left.”

The shade of green that flanked the pine trees was unknown to Ianthe, as was the cold moist dirt below her boots, as was the new breeds of butterflies and gnats buzzing about her person, as was the grey-lined sky, as was the way her breath was catching in her throat. Things were too new. She couldn’t grasp them fast enough. Her self-sufficiency was slipping through her fingers. And heavy-armored footsteps were beginning to crunch towards her.

Ianthe turned slowly toward the throng of pines next to her, dipping beneath their foliage and renotching the arrow. Her breath came out in jagged, anxious tufts, frozen, full of terror. The footsteps grew louder. She snuck a peak through the evergreen needles. She doubted whether the arrow could pierce through the oncoming silver- and gold-plated armor.

“You there!”

Her sights were locked dead onto the front man’s brow. The track her shot would take was outlined in red in her mind’s eyes, impervious to fault, flawless in its potential execution. But his acknowledgement cut her imagination short.

“You! In the trees! Come out. We only wish to talk.”

Were they the Stormcloaks Lod had described? Were they deceiving her? Or, upon the revelation of her personhood, would they turn hostile? Ianthe lost sight of the shadowed mass she’d assumed to be a bear and now counted three similarly garbed aggressors advancing in her direction. Two had their swords drawn; the first raised his hands in trust.

“I’ll give you till the count of five,” he announced, still level and calm. “Five…”

Ianthe knew she was in no shape to take on at least three armored soldiers. By the looks of them, they belonged to some sort of guild or garrison, typical of Skryim’s belligerent militancy her people had spoken so distastefully of. But they had to be well-trained. How else would they have spotted her amidst the forestry?

Ianthe, lowering her bow, grazed her cheeks and brow with an open palm, scrubbing delicately the warpaint Lod had advised she remove. She could still smell the natural dyes and herbs that had been crushed to fashion the shade – a deep purple, speckled with lavender – and sighed. Faendal, provided he wasn’t dead yet, could wait. She’d buy him some ale or fashion him a genuine Bosmer arrowhead as compensation.

“Fine!” Ianthe shouted, emerging from the foliage once the man had reached to his count of “one.” The companions standing behind him looked shocked at her surrender. Ianthe raised her hands in capitulation.

“Where do you hail from, stranger?” the man asked. Ianthe took in his dress before replying; he was clad not in the plated armor of his peers but in garbs of brown leather, underneath which spewed pieces of royal red fabric. Sheets of chainmail draped his shoulders and nearly touched the ends of his tawny hair. His face was aged and scared, though he looked not five years Ianthe’s senior.

“Falkreath,” Ianthe replied, cycling through the knowledge bestowed unto her by Lod. “Just came from the smithy there.”

The man raised his eyebrows. Ianthe concealed her anxious flinch.

“The city, eh? Are you a citizen? Because not many of Falkreath’s inner-city folks travel the backroads alone. They know better,” he called. Still, there was not an air of aggression to his tone, though Ianthe carefully waited for its arrival. “Are you different?”

“I’m…I’m hunting,” she answered. “Bringing food back home. That’s all.”

It was a poor, poor lie; Ianthe cursed her tired mind and empty stomach, still enduring the throbbing pain that radiated from her feet through her legs and chest that sprung from her mountainous trek over the White Pass. The man took on an even deeper countenance of confusion and took another few steps forward. Ianthe’s hand traveled instinctively to the sheath round her left thigh and grasped the hilt of her knife.

“We’re making rounds today to check for any Stormcloak outsiders. Only they would be foolish enough to go tumbling through Imperial woods at this hour, looking for trouble.”

A twig snapped behind Ianthe, though she didn’t dare move.

“So, come now. Lower your hood,” the man concluded. “Who are you, really?”

The two men raised their swords to a fighting position. Ianthe’s grip tightened around her knife. In the distance, Ianthe could finally make out the shifting dark form: it was a shoddily made carriage, the front of which was being pulled by a horse. Inside it sat several humanoid forms, all hunched and dilapidated. Prisoners.

Bandits. The one’s Lod had depicted. They had to be.

“Have I done something wrong, sir --?”

The man’s eyes flicked to just beyond Ianthe’s form. Another bout of twigs snapped behind her. This time she spun around in full, knife held close to her chest, just in time to see the fist and hilt of another’s drawn weapon crash into her vision in a splurge of black. The force collided with her skull, her head hit a hard ground draped with autumnal leaves, and she was gone.

“Fuckin’ elven scum…” the attacker spat before kneeling next to Ianthe’s collapsed figure and wrestling her onto her stomach.

“Easy now, Trano. Captain Poporel wants all prisoners in working order once we arrive at Helgen…”

Ianthe’s vignetted vision grew steadily darker as she was dragged from her heap on the forest floor and carried by the ankles toward nowhere good, nowhere safe, nowhere closer to the infamous Faendal, nowhere nearer toward Nirn’s mystifying promise to her father.

* * *

Ianthe awoke feeling like a child’s rag doll being dragged through mud and various razors, a stabbing ache in skull pushing her eyes as wide open as they could reach.

Panic, like a well-oiled machine, kicked in almost instantly.

She was in the carriage. The horse was pulling it forward down a cobblestone path framed by the same pine trees she’d failed to take refuge behind. Another leather-armored man sat the head, whipping the reins against the horse’s sides, shouting indiscriminately into a drably colored horizon. Her hands were bound tight behind her back, her hood, cloak, and homemade tunic stripped. Her feet sat bare against the carriage’s wooden floor and nearly collided with the booted toes of a new stranger, who was staring at her with palpable intrigue.

“Hey! You!” the Nord exclaimed. “You’re finally awake.”

Ianthe’s throat was dry, her spirits dryer. She remained quiet.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?”

Had she the strength, she would have shaken her head.

“Same as us. And that thief over there.”

Her surroundings immediately filled in; to the man’s right sat another someone – who Ianthe understood to be the “thief” – dressed in ragged robes with a head of dark amber hair. He stared in distress at his feet, also bare, and Ianthe could see his chest fly up and down. To her immediate right was the final carriage male passenger draped in a thick, black robe that nearly concealed his platinum-blonde mane. He stared skittishly from just above the lip of his cape.

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” the thief spat. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and _lazy_.”

Suddenly, Ianthe grew fervently jealous of the mystery man’s cloak, for she wished to conceal all traces of her lineage behind it in the presence of apparent rampant racists.

“If they hadn’t been looking for you, I’d’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell,” the thief elaborated, before turning his sunken, starving eyes to Ianthe. “You there! You and me? We shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

The first Stormcloak rolled his two cornflower eyes, discarding the conversational venom. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

“Shut up back there!” the carriage driver shouted just as Ianthe was leaning over the carriage walls and searching for a lose wheel she could twist off and send the ride spiraling into a ditch.

“What’s wrong with _him_?” the thief grumbled, motioning towards the cloaked man.

“Watch your tongue!” his opposite barked. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

“Ulfric?” the thief replied with resignation dripping down his cadence. “The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. If…if they captured _you_ …oh gods, where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going. But Sovngarde awaits…”

“No, this can’t be happening. This _isn’t_ happening!”

Had it not been for the guttural dread passing through Ianthe’s veins, she would have paused to wonder if these human men were, in fact, speaking a foreign language. Never had a culture been so lost to her.

“Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?” the first man asked, suddenly devoid of all confrontational inclinations. Ianthe supposed the specter of certain death, however these Nords understood it to be approaching, deflated their anger.

“Why do you care?” he earned in response.

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

“Rorikstead. I’m…I’m from Rorikstead.” the horse thief submitted. Ianthe committed the peculiar name to memory along with the other terms like Jarl, Stormcloak, Helgen, Imperial…

The driver, who Ianthe finally gathered to be of “Imperial” affiliation, announced, “ _General Tullius sir! The headsman is waiting!”_

And General Tullius replied, _“Good. Let’s get this over with.”_

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines. Please help me!”

The thief was near weeping now. He hung his dirtied head in his hands. Ianthe found space to ponder what divinities they worshipped in Skyrim, all while swearing to Y’ffre that she wouldn’t trouble him with this bump in the road, so long as he enabled her escape from her elven-hating peers.

“Look at him,” the first Nord growled. “General Tullius. The Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

Ianthe closed her eyes and recalled the morning that Perenn Haven had painted her cheeks in typical Bosmer pattern. The Nord, however, had not yet paid it nor her obviously elven features much mind.

As the conversation lulled, and as each Nord seemed to resign himself to impending doom in their own unique ways, Ianthe took in the scenery around her. The same red hue that adorned her Imperial capturers was draped in flags over the roofs of each dwelling within what she presumed to be the village of Helgen. Quaint and somewhat underdeveloped compared to the other Skyrim villages she had studied, the community seemed to organize around an ancient, grandiose castle made up of two towering stone masts. The cabins were made of logs, their rooftops of straw, and their roads were patterned with matured stones settled deep into the mossy, cold earth.

It was certainly not a place that Ianthe deemed worthy of her death.

“This is Helgen,” the first Nord chimed in, as if reading the active analysis on Ianthe’s face. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…”

Her tongue soured at the thought of a mead with such an overtly saccharine taste before moving to face, finally, the active raconteur. If he harbored no ill will towards her in his final moments, she ought to indulge him in a friendly listener’s ear.

“Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe…”

“You should never count on safety without verification,” she added. “A valuable life lesson.”

The Nord, shocked only briefly at her sudden contribution, smiled for a moment. Ianthe counted several yellowing teeth behind his thin lips and patchy blonde beard. He spoke above the subtle commotion of the townspeople emerging from their homes to watch the spectacle.

“Ay, elf. I’m well aware.”

Up ahead, Ianthe caught another voice, this one bellicose and short; a woman was yelling at several other groupings of prisoners, most of whom had vacated their own carriages and were standing in lines before one of the castle towers.

“Why are we stopping?” the thief whimpered. A tear spattered his nose as she arched her fingers upwards and dug her nails into the wood of the carriage, ignoring the splinters.

“Why do you think? End of the line,” the blonde answered. Ianthe made to absorb her smirk at his ruthlessness. Their own carriage stopped but a moment later just as she tore a thin, blade-like chunk of old wood from the carriage side. She concealed it in between her palms and twisted, twisted, twisted, searching for the handcuff’s trip switch.

“Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us,” he continued. It was enough to send the thief reeling.

“No! Wait! We’re not rebels!” he cried as he was led from the carriage to the village floor.

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” the blonde Nord replied from Ianthe’s rear.

“You’ve got to tell them” he retorted. “We weren’t with you! This is a mistake!”

The angry voice from before sounded up ahead; it was a woman, clad in the flashiest Imperial armor yet. Most of her face, save for her beak-like nose, was concealed behind a massive silver helmet engraved with depictions of vines and topped with a metal plume.

“Step toward the block when we call your name,” she shouted. “One at a time!”  
“Empire loves their damn lists,” the blonde Nord murmured to Ianthe’s right, speaking from the side of his mouth. This time, she allowed a smirk to bloom across her lips before returning to her lock-picking work; the strip of wood was not an ideal tool.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” a new cadence called from beside the woman. Ianthe, peering between Ulfric and the thief, recognized him as the faux-gentile man who had helped capture her between Helgen and Falkreath.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” the Nord whispered reverently as the apparent Jarl stepped forward and toward the chopping block, which Ianthe found incredibly rudimentary and damn near embarrassing.

“Ralof of Riverwood,” the Imperial called, prompting the blonde man to depart from Ianthe’s side. As he walked, she did her best to memorize what he wore: a thin leather tunic, royal blue robes, woolen pants and boots made of straw. It appeared as though the Stormcloaks were sorely outdressed when compared to the Imperials.

“Lokir of Rorikstead,” the Imperial said to the horse thief. And, even from her stance several paces away, Ianthe would recognize the telltale tremble and quiver of Lokir’s limbs anywhere – pure, unadulterated terror. It reminded her of torn-through throats and red eyes that pierced through pitch blackness. It made her work faster. The wood splintered deeper into her hands as a warm bead of crimson ran down her palm and spattered the ground at her feet.

“No!” Lokir shrieked as he took his first step. “I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

It happened in slow, all-too-predictable motion. The woman exclaimed through her helmet for poor Lokir from Rorikstead to “HALT!” which he, of course, declined, and one the archers perched atop the castle of Helgen launched a steel arrow into his throat. The horse thief collapsed, dead in the knees before anywhere else, two hundred feet away, and Ianthe’s doubts regarding the Nords’ faith was thus confirmed just a bit more.

She did, however, make a subliminal plea to Y’ffre as she was called up, asking only if he could make the wood of her lockpick just a bit sturdier.

“Wait,” the Imperial said. “You there. Step forward.”

And Ianthe did as she was told. She approached the man and woman Imperial, one of whom scowled at her, the other of whom regarded her with sympathetic curiosity, though her reading of Skyrim Nords had yet to develop fully.

“Who are you?” he asked, a child meeting a Bosmer wood nymph for the first time. And, as the locks round Ianthe’s wrists gave the minutest of clicks, she decided that she just might answer him with honesty.

“Ianthe Haven. From the Valenwood.”

The skepticism still held strong to his features; “Not many wood elves would choose to come alone to Skyrim.”

Ianthe let the piece of wood drop silently to the ground, her way of masking a deep frown at his ignorance. Clearly, they hadn’t seen the refugees spilling through the borders. Or, worse yet, perhaps she was the only native of the Valenwood to complete the trip?

“Captain. What should we do? She’s not on the list,” he asked.

“Forget the list,” she replied. “She goes to the block.”

Ianthe felt the sweaty metal of the handcuffs loosen around her wrists.

“By your orders, captain. I’m sorry. We’ll make sure your remains are returned to Valenwood.”

For a flash in time, Ianthe saw genuine sadness in his eyes, a tiny someone beneath his layers reaching for justice, unwilling to see a random somebody caught up in circumstance sent to their death. But the someone wasn’t strong enough, and Ianthe didn’t need their help.

“Follow the captain, prisoner.”

The captain took two long strides to Ianthe’s left. As the watery-eyed Imperial turned to watch his superior leave, Ianthe let the first loop of the cuffs off her right hand.

Yet, it was on the captain’s third stride that she decided to turn and face Ianthe’s rear and launch into a rage at what she saw.

“You _bitch!”_

The captain thrust her entire body on Ianthe, whose chin hit an especially jagged cobblestone and whose nose crashed into the dirt with a crunch.

“Captain Poporel!” the Imperials gasped.

“This _scoundrel_ thought she was a sneak thief and picked her cuffs,” captain Poporel bellowed, grasping Ianthe by the wrists and wrenching her up from the ground. “Think I was born yesterday, _elf_? Just for that, you’re first on the block.”

In a flash, a quick prayer to Y’ffre didn’t sound like such a loathsome idea.

Captain Poporel dragged Ianthe to the chopping block, a square wooden bowl with a divot just large enough to fit the average Nordic neck inside. General Tullius exchanged brief words with Ulfric Stormcloak as Poporel’s booted foot collided with Ianthe’s back, sending her tumbling forward.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

_“O’ holy Y’ffre, please, grant me the strength to see my path forward for I am unprepared to leave the ‘Now’ of your Creation…”_

“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”

_“Please, guide me, your humble servant, through the woods of chaos and into your blessed abode of peace –”_

A thunderous roar echoed from beyond the clouds, from a realm unknown to Ianthe’s eyes. Still, her vision clung to the sky. Y’ffre, from the stories she’d been charged with memorizing as a youth, did not sound so pained and bestial.

“What was that?” an Imperial chirped. Ianthe watched as fear, terror, horror, dread, and then the sheen of a thousand battles overtook General Tullius’ sullen demeanor.

“It’s nothing,” he assured everyone. “Carry on!”

“Give them their last rites,” Poporel spat. From across the way, a priestess adorned in golden orange and yellow robes began to speak.

“As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved –”

“Ah cut the shit,” Poporel rescinded. “Get rid of the sneak thief elf now. Quickly!”

Ianthe was led by Poporel past the priestess and her neck was shoved into the lip of the chopping block, the depths of which were stained red, black, and brown, the remnants still bubbling slightly in the sunshine, as though Ianthe’s father’s neck was torn to shreds just beneath her nose.

_“Y’ffre. Please. I have arrived at Skyrim. I have done as my people have asked. Please, spare me…”_

A second rumble came from the heavens as a chill ran from Ianthe’s scalp to her tailbone. Still, the warmth and adrenaline of Y’ffre was not known to her. Thus, comfort was not drawn. Relief was nowhere to be found. Her head was still target practice for the executioner but a few arms’ lengths away.

“There it is again,” the list-wielding Imperial soldier stated. “Did you hear that?”

It echoed again.

As the shadow of the executioner’s war axe, obsidian and recently sharpened, cast Ianthe’s fast into the pitch of a premature demise, a form emerged from just beyond the mountain range. It bellowed for a fourth time and its scaled wings sent several gusts of wind raking through Helgen, casting appall on all who surveyed.

Tullius was the first to react; Ianthe was too busy blinking away her astonishment.

“What in Oblivion is _that_?”

“Sentries,” Poporel called, facing away from the commotion. “What do you see?”  
“It’s in the clouds!” one replied, a beat too late.

Two wings and a long gnarled face crashed its entire weight onto the smallest of Helgen’s stone masts. A pair of howling red eyes gleamed through the morning fog and made a beeline for Ianthe’s helpless, gob-smacked person laying bewildered at the mercy of an executioner who had just fumbled over and onto his own weapon from the creature’s tremors.

Ianthe couldn’t react. She couldn’t breathe. Surely, her head had been cut off. Surely, her eyes were no longer functional.

“ _DRAGON!”_

Like a whip cracking against the impalpable surface of a thunderstorm, the dragon, stooped like the culmination of all evil, sent a sharp shriek into the air, the force of which sent Ianthe tumbling out of the chopping block and prone onto the straw floor. Her vision was spinning as the sky above her, once grey and pale blue, grew navy, black, distorted, swirling with cumulonimbus clouds.

“Don’t just stand there!”

“Fall, damn you, fall!”

“Someone get the battle mages out here, now!”

The panic-stricken Imperial forces all competed the yell over the dragon’s noise, but again and again the creature fired off its roar. Ianthe swore she saw streaks of blue energy soaring from the beast’s toothy maw as the sound beat its way against her eardrums. And somehow, through the chaos, she was abandoned, her neck not yet sabotaged.

Ianthe stood upright.

“Hey! Kinsman! Get up!”

Ralof, just a few paces forward, was waving frantically to her, sword in hand, a slice running red down his pale forehead.

“The gods won’t give us another chance!”

There was no hatred on his face, not the sort Lod had described. There was no time for it. Ralof’s pupils were narrow, mere slits against his icy eyes. Ianthe, now feeling the surges of heat explode around her as the dragnon lay siege to the town, was compelled to listen.

“This way!” he called.

Streaking across the tarnished landscape, dodging thickets of flame as they went, Ralof and Ianthe ducked inside the larger of the two masts. Smoke coated Ianthe’s throat like a woolen blanket; she collapsed onto the stone floor the moment the door was shut behind them, only to be met with two fallen Stormcloaks and Ulfric himself.

“Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof implored. “What is that thing? could the legends be true?”

And Jarl Ulfric, staring down Ralof’s unlikely companion, replied, “Legends don’t burn down villages. We need to move, now.”

“Up through the tower,” Ralof exclaimed as he lifted Ianthe back onto her feet. She saw that his beard was singed clean off. “Let’s go!”  
They took off up the stairs. Ianthe’s legs were a blur beneath her, and she was just about to leap the last three steps when the rumbling outside exploded. In a flash, she threw her arm backwards and pinned Ralof to the wall of the staircase just as the stonework up ahead erupted, the dragon’s horned head peering through and burning an unlikely Imperial archer alive.

“Nice reflexes, lass!” Ralof said before pushing past her and pointing in the direction that the dragon had fled. “See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We’ll follow when we can!”

Envisioning the rooftops as the tree branches as certified Bosmer hunters learned to traverse, Ianthe made the leap and landed on a painful heap of fractured wood, tumbling onto her shoulder and back into a crouched position. Children were screaming just ahead and she pushed past the collapsed support beams of the destroyed cabin to view the commotion.

“Hadvar!” a boy shrieked.

“Hamming! You need to get over here, now!”

Using the last standing wall of the cabin as cover, Ianthe peered into the flaming streets of Helgen. The Imperial who had reluctantly sent her to her death was guiding a boy from one pile of rubble to the next: Hadvar.

“Gods!” Hadvar cried. “Everyone get back!”

Hadvar crossed into Ianthe’s field of vision, and that same look of sympathy, now with the added backdrop of Armageddon, befell his features.

“Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

Ianthe couldn’t help but appreciate his hypocrisy and shot him a poisonous look to convey as much. And yet, as he held out his charred hand, Ianthe doubted her and Ralof’s chances at a reunion, and took off with the man who sold her out.

“Stay close to the wall!” he shrieked as the pair ducked behind a stone fence just as the dragon shoved its head into the neighboring storefront, shattering its roof into smithereens. Ianthe felt the flames of the dragon’s breath beat wildly against her prisoner’s garbs, startling her, almost entrancing her. She listened above Hadvar’s orders…

“Yul…Toor… _Shul!_ ”

The dragon was speaking. Every syllable rendered Ianthe more and more stupefied. The spell was only broken when Hadvar clutched her by the wrist and pulled her through more ruins, tripping over a mix of equal parts Imperial, Stormcloak, and civilian bodies as they went. They emerged into the main square of Helgen, an area devoid of all cover, where mages were sending balls of fire up at the beast, their efforts futile; all attacks were returned with full lethality. A soldier crumbled, burned beyond recognition, in the exact space in which Ianthe had been standing not five seconds prior.

“Hadvar!” General Tullius shouted through the fray. “Into the keep! We’re leaving!”

“It’s you and me, prisoner,” Hadvar said as he turned on his heels. “Stay close!”  
Hadvar led Ianthe through a slew of Imperial archers and into another Helgen square, dodging falling debris as they went. From the corner of Ianthe’s vision came one hefty chunk of stone, however, and while Hadvar rolled out of its range, it landed into Ianthe’s side, sending her sprawling. As she clambered back to her feet, she could make out Hadvar’s form shouting to another Nord.

“…hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

It was Ralof standing just a few paces from Hadvar, sword drawn, face bloody, teeth missing. When he saw Ianthe rise from the rumble, a grin dared to tase his expression.

“You! Ianthe! Come on, into the keep!” Ralof screamed to her as he darted off to the right. Hadvar, meanwhile, pushed forward, waving emphatically, smoke staining his cheeks and eyelids black.

“With me, prisoner! Let’s go!”

Ralof tossed Ianthe a small iron dagger, which she caught in midair. And it thus was decided. Shaking her head at the peculiar Imperial, Ianthe abandoned his company, and snuck inside the keep with a Stormcloak who had yet to show his true colors.

Ralof opened the door and allowed Ianthe passage inside first. They entered into a circular prison, the floor of which was adorned with a red carpet and sigil that Ianthe assumed to be of Imperial affiliation. Ralof, however, paid little mind to their surroundings and instead made a beeline for a crumpled figure lying motionless against the farthest wall. They both wore the same blue and brown armor. Another Stormcloak. Gingerly, Ianthe approached.

“We’ll meet again in Sovngarde, brother,” Ralof mourned before closing the eyes of his comrade. Then, composing himself, he turned to Ianthe.

“Looks like we’re the only ones who made it,” he declared. “That thing was a dragon, no doubt about it. Just like the children’s stories and the legends. The harbingers of the End of Times.”

Ianthe inspected the blade she had been gifted. “Your people and mine have very different indicators of the End of Times,” she remarked, somewhat passive, only to be shocked by the jovial chuckle she was rewarded with.

“Put your cultural differences aside for a moment,” he said. “We better get moving. Come. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

Ianthe flashed her wrists. “No need. Did it myself.”

“Ah. Pretty capable lass, I see,” Ralof chuckled. “Well, you may as well take Gunjar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore. Even though it will be a bit odd ot see an elf in Stormcloak colors…”

“There are elves in Skyrim, aren’t there?” Ianthe asked as she removed the tattered tunic gifted to her by the Imperials and feigned ignorance. “They don’t join your ranks?”

“N-no,” Ralof answered, face going a bashful red as Ianthe went to work undressing and redressing herself. “They…they’re usually allegiant to the Altmer.”

“I haven’t the damndest clue what the Altmer have to do in Skyrim.”  
“Ay, you don’t --? Huh. I mean, if you’re really fresh from the Valenwood, I suppose that isn’t too great of a shock.”

Ianthe finished strapped the chest piece onto her front and slid her feet into the boots that were several sizes too large before Ralof handed her the fallen Gunjar’s axe.

“You handy with an axe, by chance?” he inquired.

Ianthe swung it once, twice, then once more, hating the way its top-heavy body wobbled in the air.

“Not at all.”

“Excellent,” he mused. “I’m going to see if I can find some way out of here.”

As Ianthe accustomed herself to the axe, Ralof moved about the room, searching for a door that would give. She could hear the dragon’s booming voice carry on just outside, raining down syllables some distant piece of her could just barely make out, albeit not understand. And she was about to offer up her lockpicking expertise when more voices sounded from below, this time of the human sort.

“It’s the Imperials!” Ralof hissed. “Take cover!”

Before quite making sense of what was to transpire next, Ianthe was pinned against the right side of the gate, Ralof left, and a dup of nameless Imperial soldiers were rolling it open from the other side. They took not but one step into the main hall of the prison and Ralof was on top of them, slashing with his great sword as he shrieked,

“Freedom or Sovngarde!”

The Imperial, a stout man much older than Ianthe, had hatred in his eyes when he faced her, a hatred she hadn’t the wherewithal to foster. But he raised his sword up high nonetheless and it was all Ianthe could do to parry the blow. With all her adrenaline-fueled might she thrust his weapon away from her and, axe fully extended, swung into him, cutting his chest twice in the same ever-growing slice. He whimpered and fell to his knees; did all Imperials contain this pitiful sense of empathy…?

Her question went unanswered, however, as Ralof spun to the Imperial and jabbed his blade through the throat. A burst of crimson spattered from the deceased’s lips. His figure toppled as Ralof tore his sword away.

“Don’t hesitate, elf,” Ralof warned. “You will not win your sympathies.”

“It’s Ianthe, thank you,” she retorted, tossing aside the axe and exchanging it for the sword. “We don’t tend to be so brutal where I’m from.”

“No matter. Maybe one of these Imperials has the key…”

Ianthe moved to Ralof’s first victim and reached into her waistline pocket, retrieving a small brass key from inside.

“Right here,” she announced before darting toward the last remaining door Ralof had neglected to try and twisting it in the lock. It lurched open with an aged, metallic screech and Ralof took point once again.

“That’s it!” he cheered. “Come on, then. Let’s get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads.”

They scaled a steep, winding staircase, haphazard chainmail clanking and shifting with each step. Every few paces Ralof assured himself that a way was coming and Ianthe swallowed her terror just as she had the night she departed from home and she longed for the process to grow easier. At the foot of the stairs they made a sharp right, only for an avalanche of stone and wood to fall before them, cutting off an oncoming troop of Imperials.

“Damn, that dragon does not give up easily. Down this way.”

Ralof slid open another door, peered quickly inside, and slayed two more Imperial soldiers with just one war cry and not a single bat of one single eyelash.

“A storeroom,” he deciphered. “See if you can find any potions. We’ll need them.”

As Ralof examined the room for more points of exit, Ianthe scrounged up three potions of minor healing and stuffed them into the feeble Stormcloak pockets. Ralof tumbled into the next hallway without so much as a warning, and they descended into more Imperial depths. Ianthe felt as though she was operating beyond her own body. They entered into a torturer’s chamber and, after slaying four more Imperials, she looted every body in the place and made off with sixteen septims and another potion; Ralof paid her no mind.

Ianthe reached the torturer’s body and, with her knife, cut off his hood and wrapped it around her own recently shaven skull, fastening its ends to the chest piece of her Stormcloak armor.

“You sure like your secrecy, don’t you?” Ralof called as he examined the next door. Ianthe declined to answer as two more Stormcloak soldiers appeared from the keep’s depths. Ralof rejoiced at the sight of them.

“Was Jarl Ulfric with you?” Ralof asked, a pained tone to his voice.

“No,” his comrade, a blonde woman who could have passed for his sister, replied. “I haven’t seen him since the dragon showed up…wait, the cage!”

“Imperial gods. There’s nothing that’s too low for them.” Ralof handed Ianthe two pieces of metal cut into strips. “See if you can get it open with some picks. We might need that gold once we get out.”

In no time at all, Ianthe was within the cage and observing the dead body of a mage. She swiped up the gold and the spell tome sat next to his decaying person. Nodding to both her companions, the small group proceeded through the door and into the lowest levels, Ianthe enduring harsh looks from the newcomer all the while. It wasn’t until they reached the last of the Imperial cells did Ianthe spot a crevice in the tunnel walls that led down into a stream. Ralof waved both of his partners through and sent the trio into an Imperial platoon.

“Show me what you’re made of, elf!” the woman Nord shouted before launching herself into the fray, slicing an Imperial throat and basking in the resulting fountain of blood. Ianthe, gritting her teeth, dropped to the floor to dodge an incoming arrow and quickly saw her plan before her. Ducking and weaving so as to ruin a rather piss poor archer’s aim, she tripped him at the ankles, stamped her foot into his face until he fell unconscious, and wrestled the bow from his hands.

The arrows, made of steel, were lesser than those she had purchased from Lod, but made do. Ianthe crouched beneath the stone fence and raised her bow, arrow notched, toward the Imperial about to leap from the wooden bridge and onto an unsuspecting Ralof.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel Y’ffre. Fire._

The shot struck true; the steel head impaled the Imperial right between the eyes and froze the shock on her face. And before Ralof could as much comprehend that his life had been saved, Ianthe shot three more, each nailing their intended enemies. The room was cleared in a matter of seconds. Her warpaint tingled about her cheeks.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ralof uttered. “You are worth your salt.”

Parting ways with the spare Stormcloak, Ianthe followed Ralof forward, moving in breathless silence. Every dozen steps or so the caverns were rocked with a new shockwave, punctuated by another screeching scream that reached their ears even through the rocky earth. Crossing bridges and ducking under waterfalls, every other archway collapsed behind them, blocking their return and Ralof’s comrades’ escapes. Ianthe admired, though perhaps distressed over, as well, the stoniness about his face, the dedication to staying alive.

They entered into the apex of a stream running underneath Helgen, the ferocity of which rang in Ianthe’s ears. It wasn’t until her nose collided with a sticky, stringy substance draped from one cave wall to another did she hold out a hand, indicating for Ralof to pause.

“What is it, elf?” he asked. Ianthe withheld her exasperation and pointed ahead: spider’s nests. She then held her index finger to her lips, motioned for Ralof to back up, and removed her bow. His eyes reflected the ethereal green shade of the caverns, amplifying his sense of fascination.

Ianthe aimed, fired, aimed, fired, aimed, and fired one last time. As each spider emerged from their respective slumbers to investigate their slain friend, they were reduced to the same state via an arrow to the eye socket. Within ten seconds the creatures were taken care of, and Ianthe was dashing forward to retrieve her scarce weaponry.

“Ay ay ay Lass! What’re you doing?” Ralof exclaimed. “You’ll be getting poison all over your hands and your clothes and in your wounds. Those spiders are –”

“I know they’re poisonous,” she interrupted. “Perks of being a wood elf. Can hardly feel it.”

She slid the arrows back in their place and, relishing the look of bewilderment on Ralof’s expression, took the lead, feeling the signature kick in her step returning from all her hunting expeditions.

“I hate those damn things. Too many eyes, you know…?” Ralof murmured as he followed diligently behind.

Upon reaching a napping bear lying peacefully near the lapping waters, however, Ralof’s emerging sardonic nature got the best of him, and he pulled Ianthe down below one of the widest stalagmites for a spell.

“There’s a bear just ahead. See her?”

“Of course I see it,” Ianthe spat.

“I was only going to say – if you’re feeling lucky, take her by surprise. You seem a good shot with a bow.”

Ralof handed Ianthe the bow round his back, which was obviously of a higher quality. The wood obeyed well underneath her well-worked hands.

“You’re on,” she decided, cropping up from behind the strange cave formation and taking aim. The arrowhead was directed just an inch above the bear; the arch was destined to curve at just the precise angle. Y’ffre was there, blessing her in a petty little bet.

Yet, the dragon remained, as well, and it resolved to blast its cacophonous roar throughout the heavens, shaking dust and debris in Ianthe’s field of vision and awaking the smaller, furred beast just two hundred feet ahead. Ianthe shot the arrow on impulse and it embedded in the bear’s shoulder. Y’ffre’s gaze had vanished.

“Ay, sneaking is overrated,” Ralof chortled before sprinting toward the bear and gashing open its throat before it could even properly stand. Ianthe squirmed at the violence and longed to pick the animal apart, to at least make use of its pieces.

“I feel a breeze coming from this direction, lass,” he whispered before pointing left. “Onward it is!”

Within moments the breeze grew into a strong gust and Ianthe was squinting toward a break in the rock walls of the cave, a slice just wide enough for someone of Ralof’s size to squeeze through.

“That looks like the way out! I knew we’d make it!” he cheered, increasing his pace to a full run and leaving Ianthe in the dust. She didn’t bother scolding him for his excess noise, resolving to the fact that if his celebration caused the cave-in that killed them, then she would be okay with that fate.

But the duo squeezed and squeezed and squeezed through some more until the stone under their feet turned to mushy, cold slush and snow and the sun was shining so brightly down unto the cave’s entrance that Ianthe thought that they really might be entering that mythical place the Nords kept referencing: Sovenjard? How was she to even master their dialect, let alone understand it in the first place? Her boot fell through a pocket of snow just as Ralof was reaching the outside, and he shoved his hand back in to retrieve her.

Ianthe arose from the depths just as the dragon made its final round overhead; its grey, bristly body soaring like a concentrated storm through the sunshine and to the top side of the thickest clouds she had ever seen, leaving one last shrill growl in its wake. The sound reverberated through the soles of her shoes and into her very ribcage. Ralof followed the distant beast with wide eyes.

“There he goes. Looks like he’s gone for good this time.”

“How can you be sure?” Ianthe tried.

“I feel it in my bones, lass. We’re safe now.”

He dusted off his tunic and sheathed his sword, looking final, looking pleased.

“No way to know if anyone else made it out alive. But this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We’d better clear out of here.”

“Alright…” Ianthe replied, stringing up her bow and waiting for Ralof to indicate where they were to travel next. He, of course, didn’t quite deliver.

“Lass, where did you say you were –”

“Please. Ralof, right?”

“Yes, Ralof.”

“Ralof. Please, it’s Ianthe. Haven. Ianthe Haven.”

She was breathless, suddenly, as though the excitement and mortal terror of the last two hours was speeding toward her on a mine cart. And, dammit, if she hadn’t already communicated her name to enough strangers as of late.

“Sorry, lass. I’ve got an old man’s brain. Ianthe, you say? And where is it you’re from?”

“The Valenwood,” she answered, breathing deep, breathing slow. “The southern edge. I…I traveled to Skyrim just a few days ago. Alone.”

“Because of those damn vampires, I suspect?”

Her heart was flung straight into her throat and her pulse felt as though it might just burst the skin that bound her neck shut.  
“Y-you know? About the Scourge?”

Ralof nodded, taking the first couple steps forward and sending Ianthe staggering after him.

“Sure I know about it. We’ve got our very own wood elf back home, after all. Faendal. Lovely fellow. Lived with us for a while, actually –”

“Faendal? The Bosmer?”

Ralof stretched his arms, wide and pale and spattered with freckles and scars, high into the air, nearly colliding with a pine branch as he walked. A bemused confusion overtook him, that which Ianthe blew past without hesitation.

“Yeah, Faendal. You know him?”

“N-no. Well, not _exactly_. I’m supposed to meet up with him. He’s my Skyrim contact. My mother. She told me, before…well, she told me to look for Faendal in Riverwood. That he would help me get settled, and –”

“Ay, lass. Look here,” Ralof, without warning, was before Ianthe and stopped her dead in her tracks, each of his hands on either of her shoulders. “Relax. Take some breaths. I can tell that you’ve been through much. Tell me about it when we get to Riverwood?”

“You…you live in Riverwood?”

“Not personally, no. But my sister, Gerdur, runs the mill there. It’s just up the road. I’m sure she’ll help you out.”

Ianthe’s spirits reached so high a point, she thought the dragon might swoop down once more and swallow them whole. It was all she could do to conceal her tears and substitute them with a smile that pinned her warpainted cheeks into two steep hills just below her eyelids.

“Thank you, Ralof. I…I can’t thank you enough, really.”

“You helped me much today, too, lass. I suspect we make an unlikely pair.”

“The first man I met in Skyrim told me all Stormcloaks had an aversion to folks like me.”

Ralof chuckled, a hearty thing that bounced in between the mountains and through the diverse Skyrim terrain.

“Ah, that’s a common thought. And not an unfounded one. But I wasn’t raised that way. And, lass, if you’re new to Skyrim, here’s my advice to you – don’t start politicking. It never ends up well.”

“I’ll take that into account.”

“But keep talking! Tell me about the Valenwood! I’m not of any prejudice, but you wood elves have a much nicer voice that those dark elves up in Windhelm, if you ask me…”


	5. Before the Storm - Part 1

##  (From the Archives of Lucia Haven) “Laat Dovahkiin Interpersonal Relationships First Era INTERVIEWS: Faendal of Riverwood #11” (Conducted on _2 nd of Second Seed 4E 298_)

_I received a letter from Faendal on the 30 th of Rain’s Hand informing me that he believed his “life’s ichor was running short” and that if I wanted anymore “juice” out of him that I’d better come quick before “Y’ffre claimed him.” I know using his rhetoric will make me weep when I am made to incorporate his testimony in the final draft, but I also know that it will make me smile. From the moment I met Faendal, I understood why my mother was so swoon by him. The gleam in his eyes is beyond that which I have to come to recognize in wood elves’; instead of playing Bosmer tricks on your vision, he’s reading your insides. My mother once told me that he was a messenger of Kynareth gone rogue and I have spent many a sleepless night determining what that could mean and if it could ever be true. Does Kynareth have messengers? If so, it’s unfair that one of Her finest was strung up with so fatal a case of Rockjoint._

_I was thinking about Ianthe and her belief system on my way over here. Stop me if I’ve asked this before, but did she ever pray?_

Faendal: Not in the Nordic way, no. Wood elves are much less pomp and circumstance and much more intrapersonal about it. But I did see her on some occasions reach out to Y’ffre, and later on she grew more and more interested in the Nine Divines. But I don’t think she ever worshipped them. She grew a lot more disillusioned with that sort of thing, as time went on.

_Any idea why?_

Faendal: Are you really asking me that?

_I think I am. She did see Sovngarde, after all. One would think she’d become more faithful at that point._

Faendal: Sure she did, and it didn’t get her much. Your mom cared way more about the here and now once her Dragonborn tenure was up, and I’d say it was a wise choice on her part. She was never the wishy-washy type.

_Why would she reach out to Y’ffre?_

Faendal: When you two, you and Runa, were old enough, she told you all the stories about Y’ffre. That I remember. And Bosmer regard Y’ffre as part folktale and part divine, too. She felt a connection to him from her father and as a stranger in a strange land, I guess. I do too. I feel him about sometimes. Or I did, back when I wasn’t bedridden. Oh well.

_So you shared her beliefs? To a point, at least?_

Faendal: As much as fellow Bosmer did, I suppose. You know, we really didn’t talk about it much. It was hard to get serious a lot of the time. And when she was serious, you knew that something was wrong. She was so sad when something was wrong…oh, but do you know what she did always talk about? Fate. So much so that it was a joke between us. Everything was fate. Everything was destiny. Everything was meant to be.

_Everything? Did she believe in free will?_

Faendal: Oh, sure. Ianthe was the proudest champion of free will I ever saw. But when things went especially right or especially wrong, she liked to attribute it to something greater. I think it made her feel better. Made her feel more in control by acknowledging her lack of control. Does that make any sense? I don’t think it does.

_It doesn’t make a lick of sense, Faendal._

Faendal: Oh, and that tongue of yours? That’s from Serana, _not_ my Ianthe. Remember that.

_I will. Did she consider her meeting Serana fate?_

Faendal: She never said so. But, by her logic, knowing that she considered that to be the best thing to ever happen to her – besides you girls, of course – the universe probably aligned itself that day just so they could meet in the middle. She loved Serana. Truly.

_She loved you, too. Were you fate?_

Faendal: I damn sure hope so!

##  Like-Minded

“But then we stopped in Helgen. And, well, you know the rest.”

Ralof’s accented twang bounced from one low-hanging branch to another. The beats of his story changed in timbre and intensity along with the terrain over which they traversed, an equal mix of woodland and plains imbued with a dull chill Ianthe was profoundly confused by. Never did she expect to miss the muggy, dense air of the Valenwood forest floor and yet, as she passed by another purple blossoming thrush, the scent so fragrant it drew water to her eyes, she longed for the thin blanket of familiar beaded sweat to swathe her.

“Have you fought alongside Ulfric for long?” Ianthe asked, looking overhead as a pair of wings cast shadows across her boots. It was a small creature, not one she knew by name, with amber-tinted feathers.

“A long while, yes. I’m afraid that I’m as old as I look, maybe even older,” Ralof replied, clamping a hand on his middle and rubbing the solid, albeit protruding, lump of stomach and muscle mass that made up his torso. Ianthe marveled briefly at his stamina; there was a shakiness in her knees now and a ring of darkness beginning to supersede unto her vision due to what she hoped was only a case of exhaustion, nothing worse.

“How come?”

And when Ralof made a face, Ianthe made one right back.

“I’m brand new,” she reminded him. “I don’t understand your Skyrim lore. You should enlighten me.”

“Well, I’m no _history scholar_ , you’ll have to go the Bards’ College for that kind of work,” Ralof dawdled, pausing a moment to read a nearby sign. Constructed of one wooden post and several planks, Ianthe did her best amidst the blinding sunshine to make out the words, three of which she deciphered:

_“Riften”_ (pointed eastward)

_“Whiterun”_ (pointed northwards)

_“Riverwood”_ (pointed northwest)

“But it’s all about saving Skyrim from foreign rule. At least to _me_ it is. Those damn high elves of the Aldmeri Dominion kept shoving their nose in everyone’s business, made it damn near illegal to continue on as a Nord…it reaches a limit, you know? When your way of life is threatened, you need to act. Need to _react_.”

“There’s a civil war, then?” Ianthe pressed, watching shadows crawl over her companion’s honeyed face. “Between the Imperials and your people, the Stormcloaks.”

“Ay. A bloody one, at that, too. Started some twenty-five years ago ever since the Markarth incident, if’n you ask me. Most folks have a different interpretation of the events, though.”

“Markarth?”

Ralof chortled, wiping two hefty palms down his cheeks. They were approaching a stone bridge now that crossed overtop a roaring brook. Ianthe stopped to peer over its edge and caught a glimpse at the fish within the stream, silver, green, brown, yellow, bug-eyed and tasty. Ralof waited until she’d finished her ogling.

“Markarth, lass,” he said. “A grand old city at the westernmost edge of Skyrim. Or, at least, it was a grand city, pre-Forsworn invasion…”

Ianthe made another face, this time without malintent. It brought another gleam to Ralof, who was now adjusting his sheath round his waist and tucking in his tunic, making himself presentable. Ianthe judged that they must be close.

“I’m really losing you, aren’t I?” he suggested.

“Unfortunately so.”

“You’re better off reading some of Gerdur’s history books then. And I’m sure Delphine has some good reads at the inn…”

“But is it true? That the Stormcloaks hate elves?”

Ianthe was tired of dancing around the question. She was tired of a lot of things, actually, walking on a blatantly empty stomach among them. But avoiding such a tenebrous topic of conversation was weighing on her heavily.

“Depends on who you ask,” Ralof admitted. “I know plenty of Stormcloaks who misread the stories and the legends. Toutin’ off things like ‘only Nords are the true brothers and sisters of Skyrim’ and that no one else belongs here. Really dampens the cause, if you ask me. It’s the Aldmeri that I have a problem with, and they just happen to be of the elven sort. _High_ elves, to be specific.”

“Did they start this conflict?”

“They sure as hell did! Shoving the outlawing of Talos right underneath the Empire’s nose, demanding us Nords abandon our divine patron –”

He stopped himself. He smiled. He shook his head.

“Look, we can get into these specifics later. I’ll only rile myself up, if I continue to lecture about it. But I haven’t a problem with anyone as long as they aren’t an Imperial. Talos worshipper or not.” Ralof turned around to face Ianthe. “Trust me?”  
It was a foolishly rhetorical question, one that, even if the answer had been a resounding no, Ianthe was no in condition to act upon. Thus, she returned his good-mannered grin.

“I do. And I’m quite the fan of a good story, so I trust you’ll be telling me the rest soon,” she remarked.

“Not a problem, lass. And I suspect you won’t have to do much more waiting, because I see the gates into Riverwood just up ahead!”

Following his excited gesticulation, Ianthe’s own gaze landed upon the gates in question. Made of wood and straw and stone, they led into another quaint town far more homely and domestic than the militant Helgen. As they rounded the last bend, she watched a child or two dart about the main thoroughfare, arms extended, grasping aimlessly at a runaway chicken while a large dog chomped at their ankles in revelry. Oak trees in full greenish bloom tapered above the village and scattered the sunlight into golden clumps here and there, the occasional ray shining down unto a mess of snowberries and various market signposts. As Ralof stationed himself in the center of the road, planted a hand over top his eyes, and scanned the horizon for his sister, Ianthe memorized the names of the general goods store, the inn, and the local forge.

Nothing was quite as darling in the Valenwood, she deduced. And, while she could never imagine dwelling in a neighborhood as linear and scarce as that which was before her, it led her to wonder just where Faendal would place her. As her immigration contact, it was his duty to determine where she would best fit in the vastness of Skyrim; she was still too unfamiliar to have any clue of what to hope for and of what to dread.

“Ianthe! Over this way!”

Ralof had migrated, unbeknownst to Ianthe, nearly a hundred feet to her right, crawling past the first residential house and toward the several intersections of the stream. In the largest portion of land uninterrupted by the roaring waters stood an ancient oak of a height even Ianthe could appreciate; underneath its shade was a woman of Ralof’s almost exact countenance, her hair just several shades more orange.

“Brother! Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you,” this woman exclaimed as Ralof dashed to scoop up his sister, lifting her by her underarms into the air. Ianthe saw, from her more distant perch, that Gerdur wore a dirtied teal corset undone at the front, a thin cotton dress, and two hefty leather gloves that came to her wrists. She’d just been interrupted from work at a nearby anvil.

“Gerdur!”

“Is it safe for you to be here?” she implored, demanding releasing from her sibling’s grasp. “We heard that Ulfric had been captured –”

“Gerdur, I’m fine,” Ralof assured. “At least _now_ , I am.”

“Are you hurt? What’s happened?” She began picking at the streaks of painful red and brown that littered Ralof’s forearms, concern folding her brow into that of a much older woman, before her gaze fell upon Ianthe, who would have perhaps smiled, had the shadows surrounding her line of sight not begun to throb with each growl of her stomach.

“And who’s this? One of your comrades?”

“Perhaps not a comrade yet, but a friend,” Ralof answered, reaching toward Ianthe and inviting her forward. “I owe her my life, in fact.”

Gingerly, wobbling on her booted feet, Ianthe extended a hand toward Gerdur.

“Ianthe.”

Gerdur accepted her offering and shook her hand with vigor, the same sort that was abundant in Ralof. Ianthe relished in her grip, for it provided a moment of stability on which she could lean.

“Pleasure to meet you, dear,” Gerdur said.

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Ralof soon interjected as Ianthe returned to her shaking stance. “There’s no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials…”

“Helgen?” Gerdur questioned. “Has something happened…?”

Yet, when Gerdur made to speak once more, her blue eyes flicked to Ianthe, whose vision went completely black for just a moment, though a moment in time long enough for her to succumb to the darkness. She fumbled and fell rear-first onto the sodden grassy floor; Ralof and Gerdur gasped in unision.

“Lass? You alright?” Gerdur entreated.

“Talos knows when she’s last eaten,” Ralof commented. “She looked mighty thin when the Imperials found her.”

Ianthe’s sight was soupy and languid, the smells, colors, and sounds of the surrounding forest all morphing together to make a mess of new beginnings and unresolved mortal terror. She didn’t need to be wrapped up in any civil war or dragon business. She needed Faendal. Everything depended on Faendal…  
“Hod!” Gerdur shouted over her shoulder. “Hod! Come here! Help me with this one.”

“What is it, woman?” a new voice answered. Ianthe could sense that it was rested atop the lumber mill to her back. “Sven drunk on the job again?”

Ralof gripped Ianthe by her waist and hoisted her up into his arms. Her head bobbled in partial obscurity against his chest as they began traveling back the way they’d come.

“No, you great oaf. Give me the house key. We need to let this little one rest up.”

“Ralof!” it said. “What are you – oh. I see. I’ll be right down.”

* * *

“…can hardly believe it myself. And I was there.”

Ralof’s familiar marble-mouthed cadence touched Ianthe’s ears before her eyes could even part. When she did finally allow light beneath their lids, it was low, and orange, and soothing, and warm. There was a thin blanket pulled up to the tip of her chin and her clean-shaven head was resting on a flat pillow. It was much more comfort than she had been afforded since departing from home, and she wasn’t keen on leaving it.

“As strange as it sounds, we’d be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away.”

A warm, new scent traveled to Ianthe’s nostrils; bread. Not something they often had in the Valenwood; she could hardly recognize the smell. In between her squinting she spotted what looked to be a stone oven, on top of which sat a golden-brown loaf. Her mouth watered; her stomach howled.

“Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?”

She ought to eat something. That much was obvious. She made to sit up, slowly but surely…

“Nobody else has come up the South road today, as far as I –”

“Is…is that bread for someone else?”

Her interjection shot like a spear through the conversation. All at once six eyes were on her person once her own vision – and sense – came to.

“Uh, I mean…” she backtracked. “I’m only asking, you know…like Ralof said, it’s been a while since I’ve eaten, and –”

“Oh, lass, of course you can have some,” Gerdur replied. She was seated nearest Ianthe on a wooden chair next to a low-standing bookshelf filled to the brim with colorful leatherbound texts. As she rose from her seat, Ralof and the newcomer, Gerdur’s husband Hod, continued the conversation.

“Maybe we can lay low for a while,” Ralof said. “I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but…”

“Nonsense,” Gerdur replied as she sent a large rectangular knife through the loaf, cutting two piping hot pieces. “You are your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let _me_ worry about the Imperials.”

As Gerdur meandered back to Ianthe, who was now seated upright, Ralof shot her an excited wink at the invitation. The feeling was far from mutual, however.

“Thanks,” Ianthe said as she took the food. “But…Gerdur, is it?”

Gerdur nodded. “Yes, darling.”

“Alright. I…I can’t stay here. Not for long, anyways. I mean no offense, it’s just that I’m to find Faendal. He’s my contact, you see, from the Valenwood. He’s in charge of my immigration to Skyrim, and the whole Helgen dragon incident has really thrown a wrench in my plans. So I shouldn’t keep him waiting much longer, and –”

Gerdur, with all the gentility in the world, set her rough palm down unto Ianthe’s shoulder, who just noticed that she was damn near bare beneath the thinning sheet spare for a loose-fitting tunic and wrappings she did not recall applying.

“Ralof has already told me all about the business you have with Faendal. He’s out on a hunt right now, but should be back within the hour before sundown” she assured her. “At least rest until then. You’re mighty thin, even for an elf. You could do with some sleep and more meat on your bones.”

But Ianthe couldn’t let herself relax. Not completely, at least, until Faendal was in her sights. But Gerdur commanded not just an air of propriety but of obedience and admiration; she was not one to defy. Ianthe chalked it up to more Nord mystique; no one back home could ever gain such an immediate hold on her, that was for certain.

“Alright,” she finally granted. “Thank you. For the bread. And the bed. And…well, everything else, too.”

“Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine,” she purred before retaking her seat. “I’ve left a key to the house along with some spare clothes over on that table. If there’s anything else you need, even _after_ Faendal returns home, just let me know.”

Ianthe’s gaze traveled to the table in question; she had been gifted what she could only assume to be Nordic commoner’s clothes, a dress and a rough spun tunic, and withheld her grimace, pining for pants at the very least. And there was, in fact, a silver key gracing the top of the cloth pile.

“You know, if the lass is so eager to get a move on…” Hod began, another blonde man donning a white shirt and leather bracers; Ianthe quickly deemed him unimpressive when compared to his wife.

“ _Ianthe_ ,” Ralof corrected dramatically, not before eyeing Ianthe once more to gain her approval. “She doesn’t take kindly to bein’ called ‘lass.’”

“Yes. _Ianthe_. If you’re so eager to get a move on, once Faendal sets you on your way, there is something you could do for me. Rather, for all of us here,” Hod explained.

“Of course,” Ianthe said, standing up from the bed and pausing a moment to calm her swaying head. The bread had yet to properly settle in her stomach. Gerdur cleared her throat as her husband ceased speaking; she took up the task.

“The Jarl needs to know if there’s a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless…”

“ _Jarl_ is the title for a Hold’s governor,” Ralof interrupted, placating Ianthe’s curiosity. “There are nine holds in total. Riverwood is under the Whiterun Hold.”

Gerdur continued, “So we need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can. If you do that for us, we’ll be in your debt.”

“I…I think I can manage that,” Ianthe lied, beyond confused. “How far is Whiterun from here?”

“Just over half a day’s journey, I would say,” Hod replied. “But, given your _elven_ build, I suspect shorter.”

Ianthe couldn’t read whether the addendum was complimentary or insulting in nature, so she shot Hod a look of neutral acknowledgement before taking up the bundle of clothes and motioning toward the remainder of Gerdur’s residence. After a moment, Gerdur understood the message.

“Oh. Yes. Go right downstairs. Our washroom is there,” she explained.

Ianthe dipped her head in gratitude and took her leave, feeling out of place amidst a family gathering she deemed rare and somewhat sacred to its participants. Ralof’s sudden visit, though seemingly rare, gave a great stir to his sister and brother in laws’ hearts. There was a softness to all of their features that Ianthe had yet to observe among any of the Nords she’s spoken to thus far. As she dodged the homely clutter, spare books, pillows, sofas, rugs, and cooking dishes, she turned back to face the trio. They were laughing.

“Thanks, sister. I knew I could count on you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I was always the responsible one back home.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“It most certainly is. Mother is in Sovngarde nodding her head as we speak, and chastising _you_ for being so bloody reckless!”

“Ow! Ow! Gerdur, I’m already hurt!”

The taste of iron and a sharp tightness blossomed in the center of Ianthe’s throat, the likes of which she struggled to swallow and ignore. She took the stairs slowly, still adjusting to her footwork after such a tiresome journey, and the basement was as dingy as her sudden onset of a gloomy mood. Across the dirt floor was a wash tub and a rug hung up as a makeshift curtain. She ducked inside and disrobed.

There were new slices on her hands and feet from her lockpicking job and her frantic, shoeless escape from the dragon. Beyond that, her tawny flesh looked as it always had. There was a slice running down the length of her scalp, though it was thin and lacked any worrisome depth, probably the result of miscellaneous falling debris. Give it three more days for her skull to grow the first shell of her black hair and it would be invisible to random passersby, she assured herself. What proved more troublesome than any external damage was the garbs she was tasked with wearing.

“Hope she didn’t want these back…” Ianthe murmured as she grabbed a nearby set of scissors and went to work adjusting the dress and tunic. By the time she was finished, the dress came to just at her knees, the tunic a few inches above, and the sleeves were rolled up past her elbows. She wadded up the spare fabric and stuffed it into one of the dress’s numerous pockets. If she could shave her own head, certainly she could hem her own clothes.

The next hour passed by without incident though contained within a stupor of altered, near evening reality. Ianthe rested up on Gerdur and Hod’ porch. Their abode was stationed at the very rear of Riverwood, prefaced by a fenced-in yard that housed a portly cow munching on grass and weeds and small yellowed flowers. He eyed Ianthe periodically with warmth; she felt safe in his presence, despite not having communed much with cows before. Occasionally Gerdur would prod at Ianthe with a goblet of water or a wedge of cheese – both of which Ianthe eventually accepted – in between her questions. Unlike Ralof, Gerdur had an appropriate knowledge of the Valenwood and its indigenous populations, which she attributed to Faendal.

“He’s a funny man, there’s no denying that,” Gerdur commented, before correcting herself. “Not because he’s elven, of course. I don’t mean it like that. We aren’t the prejudiced type, I assure you –”

“I know, Ralof told me,” Ianthe said, fingering a lump of yellow and bluish cheese, wondering at the smell. “You wouldn’t be so nice to me if you were.”

Gerdur relaxed, her broad shoulders dipping. “Good point, I suppose.”

“Did he ever say which part of the Valenwood he was from?” Ianthe asked. And when Gerdur looked puzzled, it became obvious that, like most non-Bosmer, she had assumed the Valenwood was a monolith, one large entity without difference.

“I’m…I’m not sure he’s ever mentioned it, no.”

Ianthe nodded. “Fair enough. And he lives alone?”

“He does. I’ve never heard him talk much about his family, now that I think about it. On account of the Scourge, I expect.”

“I expect you’re right.”

Gerdur paused a moment before crouching down to Ianthe’s place and taking a seat beside her on the wooden porch steps. Up close, Gerdur showed age, but in a way that Ianthe felt compelled to admire. She doubted many Nordic women possessed the grace she did, despite her crows feet and lines running horizontal across her pallid forehead. Ianthe wondered how long Nords lived and how many years this one in particular had under her belt.

“Have you got family, Ianthe?” she asked. “Ralof said you traveled alone.”

“I…I do. Back home,” she answered. “But I was sent here to escape the vampires after they raided my dwelling.”

“But didn’t your family accompany you? You can’t be more than twenty, darling.”

Ianthe swallowed and paid special attention to the way her throat worked with against the tides of her saliva pushing down her gullet. She was grateful for the intact skin there, not grateful for the turn the conversation had taken. Once upon a time she’d been so loquacious; where had that version of herself run off to?

“I don’t really know what twenty means to a Nord…” she chuckled. Gerdur pondered it for a moment before shrugging.

“Well, how long do Bosmer live for?”

“Anywhere between one hundred to three hundred years is pretty common, from my understanding,” Ianthe explained. “And I’m nearing forty, so…”

Gerdur counted on her fingers, the gears churning behind her skull. “I’d say my estimations were about right.”

Ianthe smiled and hung her head in her hands. A sliver of the main road was visible from their perch, the direction from which Faendal was intended to come, according to Hod as of thirty minutes prior. It was lit up gold and orange now as the rast beams of sunshine were fading overtop the mountain range that encased Riverwood as though it were eggs in a woven elven basket. And Faendal, according to all informed parties, had gone hunting near that same mountainous region to the northwest for a deal he had strung up with Riverwood’s inn.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” Gerdur asked. Judging by the hand she placed on Ianthe’s arm, however, she knew the answer to her own question.

“Just adjusting to a new place, that’s all,” Ianthe answered. “I’ll be in normal shape soon enough. And I’m starting to get the feeling that there aren’t as many Bosmer here as we thought back home.”

“I can’t give you an answer about that, I’m afraid…” Gerdur’s voice trailed off as Ianthe stared deeper into the leather boots she’d been gifted, analyzing the scuffs and scrapes. “But I think I see someone just up ahead who can!”

Gerdur stood up and pointed northwest. In between the structure of the general goods store and a residential dwelling strolled a lean, humanoid figure adorned with several bloody carcasses along his front and back. Even from the distance at which she stood, Ianthe could clearly see the bow clutched in his left hand.

“Faendal…” she murmured to herself before launching off the porch, startling the cow, and making a beeline for the main road, dodging Hod’s plump cabbages as she went. Someone was greeting Faendal; the forge master, perhaps? Whomever it was, their jolly Nordic voice was drowning his out, that which she so desperately wanted – no, _needed_ – to hear.

She was so close. She rounded the corner. He was in front of her, adjusting his sash of hunted rabbits and wiping a streak of their blood across his large brow. She clattered to a halt. He turned to face her.

“Faendal?”

He gave Ianthe a bemused look, accented by his large, deep-set eyes.

“In the flesh, I suppose…?”

He was so abruptly Bosmer that it made Ianthe’s stomach drop into her feet. He had an elongated, pinkish-brown face, a nose like a triangle that came to a fine point at its end, a legions’ long forehead, the same knobby elbows and knuckles as she, white, coarse hair pulled taut into a ponytail behind his neck, a bow clasped in one hand, a quiver round his person…

“And _you_ are…?”

Footsteps sounded to Ianthe’s rear, distracting her just before Faendal’s apparent inability to recognize Ianthe decimated her spirits too deeply. Gerdur appeared at her side.

“You’ve been expecting her, Faendal,” Gerdur stated with a proud, calm smile on her face. “Miss Ianthe. From the _Valenwood_.”

Like a child, Ianthe nodded vigorously and watched as realization dawned on his elongated features. He blinked once, then twice, and then a rabbit fell from its trappings and landed with a wet, heavy _splat!_ on the dirt road, staining the dust and pebbles ruby.

“Ianthe? Ianthe _Haven_?” he questioned.

“In the flesh,” she replied meekly, ignoring the unusual squeak of her voice.

“By Y’ffree…you were supposed to turn up over a week ago. I…I mean, I gave up…I just didn’t think…”

“Got held up in Helgen,” Gerdur explained. “Her and Ralof escaped a group of Imperials just this afternoon. That and a giant bloodthirsty beast. It’s quite the enrapturing story.”

Ianthe nodded again. “Y-yeah, I suppose it is.”

“One that I’ll let _her_ tell,” Gerdur finished. “Your hunt went well, I take it?”

Faendal retrieved the stray rabbit from the ground and just as he went to reattach it, another fell with the same noise and the same bloody splatter. Without hesitation, Ianthe rushed to his aid.

“Yeah. Yeah, it did. Delphine will be pleased. Maybe even offer me a little extra coin for all the extra rabbits I came across.”

Ianthe handed Faendal the fallen prey. He took it with care, eyeing her intently in a way that, even for a fellow wood elf, Ianthe judged to be intense. He clearly was not from her region of the Valenwood; there was a reddish ring around his irises that glowed just enough to reveal the width of his pupils.

“She’s in a good mood today. I think she may make good on that for you,” Gerdur said. “Ianthe, why not help Faendal deliver his hunt to Delphine? It’ll help you get acquainted with the rest of Riverwood.”

“Sure thing,” Ianthe replied, as though obeying a suggestion from her mother and not an noontime stranger. For a brief moment, she watched Faendal and Gerdur talk with their eyes, the former unsure, the latter omnipotent. In between her jealousy of his flawless reading of Nordic mannerisms, Ianthe realized that, to have grown so deeply acquainted with Riverwood’s populous, Faendal must have lived there for quite some time.

“Alrighty then,” Faendal announced. “It’s just down the road. You can hang onto that rabbit. I don’t think I can really hold all of them, to be honest.”

Ianthe silently did as she was told and bid Gerdur a quick goodbye. Faendal didn’t speak on the two-minute walk, only grumbled to himself about payment and paperwork and other musings Ianthe couldn’t make out in between his responding to various greetings from the townspeople. Yet, when they finally crossed through the porch of the Sleeping Giant Inn, Faendal held the door open for her.

“After you, miss Haven,” he said, bowing his head, though not without a faint glimmer in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she humored him, and entered inside yet another vestige of Skyrim warmth and antiquity.

The inn was grand in an impish and quaint sort of way and Ianthe predicted that she would need to grow used to such a Skyrim paradox. Constructed of more wood, more logs, more earthen material manipulated beyond nature’s purpose, she noticed that her morale neglected to plunge at the sight. In Falkreath, she’d mourned the sight of such civilized carpentry; the dragon really had put done a nice job of putting things into perspective.

Stationed in the center of the inn’s center hall was a flaming fire pit, the tongues of which danced below several pots of boiling stews and cooking meats. A hearty, beef-tinted odor wafted throughout the room. Tables and chairs and benches were scattered willy-nilly about the floor. As they moved toward the front, Faendal waving, Ianthe wishing she’d held onto that torturer’s hood she’d scrounged during the Helgen escape for a sense of privacy, she watched her feet pass over several frayed carpets adorned with various patterns and images. They told stories, the carpets, so much so that she felt ashamed for trotting overtop their scenery and longed to stay and learn their histories.

Faendal, meanwhile, expressed no such sentimentality. Ianthe blinked and he was several paces ahead, about ready to unload his hunting prizes onto the counter. She scampered to his side just as another Nord, shorter and even burlier than both Hod and Ralof, hair black, however, instead of blonde, met Faendal with wide, congratulatory eyes.

“Ay, Faendal, you son of a bitch,” the man announced, taking up one of the rabbits and examining it beneath the unusually vivid torchlight. “How d’you do it, ay? How’s someone as small as you able to make such a steal out of a simple hunt, huh?”

“Even when you praise me you still sneak an insult between your words, Orngar,” Faendal answered. As he reached back to detach another of the rabbits, his eyes fell upon Ianthe’s expectant figure, bouncing back and forth on her toes. He remembered his duty, it seemed, and, gripping her by the shoulders, inserted her into the conversation.

“Oh. Orngar. This is Ianthe Haven. She’s, ah…”

He faltered. So Ianthe took up the reins.

“I’m a family friend from the Valenwood. Just made it here today,” she filled in. Faendal, nodding first to her knowingly, then to Orngar, agreed. Orngar took her hand in a ginger shake.

“Yes. Made the long journey all by herself, she did.”

Orngar dark eyes widened as he absorbed Ianthe’s form in full. She swore his gaze lingered on her bald head.

“You’re the elf that showed up with Gerdur’s brother, ay, aren’t you?” he implored. Invasive, yes, but harmless. Ianthe indulged him.

“That’s me, alright.”

“And this your first time in Skyrim, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

Orngar chuckled to himself, a low rattle. “Fuck me. What an unlucky welcome _you_ got, lass.”

Faendal looked between the two speakers with a knitted brow.

“Unlucky?”  
Before Ianthe could stall the inevitable, however, Orngar took up the task. As he spun the tale in tongues of brevity, Ianthe judged that he must be an excellent bartender. Out of all the Nords she’d heard thus far, he had the most amusing voice.

“I’ll say. Didn’t you hear? Ralof got scooped up near the border, near the White Pass, with Ulfric Stormcloak. Took ‘em to Helgen to be executed, Hod told me. Only escaped on account of the dragon.”

A third rabbit plummeted from Faendal’s clutches. It landed square on Ianthe’s shoe.

“ _Dragon_?” he exclaimed, receiving the carcass from Ianthe without breaking his gaze from Orngar.

“Dragon!”

Faendal looked to Ianthe for confirmation.

“Dragon,” she reciprocated.

“Dragon…a fucking _dragon_ …” Faendal shook his head as a broad, cynical grin overtook his face. Ianthe recognized it, saw Perenn Haven in its folds and creases. “Skyrim really does _not_ want any Bosmer crossing its borders, does it…?”

“What’s that, boy?” Orngar called as he began tossing the rabbits into a nearby basket around which flies and gnats buzzed. Faendal shook his head once more and stopped his muttering.

“Oh. Nothing, nothing, Orngar,” he stammered. “You’ve got my septims in order then?”

“Ay, sure do. That comes out to…thirty-one gold pieces.”

Orngar dropped a coin purse into the small pool of gelatinous blood and guts that had accumulated about the wooden counter. Yet Ianthe watched as a shadow of disappointment crossed her guide’s features and felt a familiar zap of electricity about her tongue, the same which had gotten her into muddied waters so many times back home.

It was a welcomed sensation.

“You said it yourself, _Orngar_. Faendal, despite his smallish frame, has brought back quite the feast for your inn here,” she gestured. “Can’t you extend his reward? Just a _bit_?”

Orngar was too confused to respond for a moment, and Ianthe was too busy with ignoring Faendal’s venomous glare to mind. A smile teased her lips, and she let it remain. She leaned into the counter, avoiding the crimson goo, and suddenly felt grateful for her Nordic dress.

“Ah…well, that is a good point, I suppose…” Orngar muttered. “Delphine is mighty appreciative, ay, she is…”

“And I’m sure I’ll be passing through Riverwood throughout my Skyrim travels. I’ll be sure to stay a night or several here when that time comes,” she promised.

Reluctant, he gave in. Ianthe watched with pride, a foreign inflation of her chest she hadn’t felt for quite some time, as he reached beneath the counter and dumped nine more gold septims onto the wooden surface. He handed them to Faendal with finality.

“There. Forty. For your troubles.”

“Thank you, Orngar. You are _much_ too kind,” Faendal hummed, scooping the spare currency into the pocket of his own tunic.

“Damn right I am, boy.”

“Speaking of Delphine, is she here, by chance?” he asked. “I’ve been tasked with acquainting dear Ianthe here with the townspeople, and, well, if Delphine isn’t _the_ townswoman, then I don’t know who is.”

Orngar shook his head no as Ianthe retracted herself from the scene. “I’m afraid not. She’s on a voyage near Solitude, last I heard. Official trading business. You know how she never tells me anything, ay.”

“Tragically, I do,” Faendal replied. “Well, send her my regards, if you please. And we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Stay safe out there,” Orngar called as they traversed the length of the inn once more. “And you, traveler, watch the skies!”

Ianthe waved to Orngar as Faendal ducked back outside. His hands caught her midmotion once again, however, and redirected her to the length of the porch. She stood, between his palms, still and stiff as a plank, trying to smile, trying to read him; both tasks were impossible.

“Hi there, _Ianthe_ _Haven_ ,” he finally stated, removing his hands from her sides and sticking one out to shake. “I’m Faendal, from Woodhearth.”

 _Woodhearth_. It made sense now. His hair and skin tones matched those who frolicked the plains during their hunts, much unlike Ianthe’s people who prowled the forest floors. Her father had once relayed to her fables about how the Bosmer out west had platinum hair due to all the time they spent in the sun; was Faendal really a testament to that?

“Ianthe Haven. From Haven.”

“Funny, that name of yours,” he remarked, jovial, almost, which played strangely along his features. But before she could elaborate he stuck his hand back into his pocket and removed the cloth purse full of septims. Slowly and methodically he counted out nine and reached out to give. Ianthe stood, stunned.

“I think these nine spare septims have your name on them.”

She shook her head no. “But, Gerdur, she said that –”

“I’m doing just fine, trust me,” he interceded. “Besides, I’m not the one who was just nearly beheaded by the Empire and burned alive by a dragon, all in an attempt to escape some bloodthirsty vampires. You can use it more than me.”

Unwilling and unable to argue, Ianthe pocketed the coins. Faendal began moving back down toward Riverwood’s main road, a new kick in his step that Ianthe felt eager to mimic.

“You…you have no idea how long I’ve waited to get here,” she started. “How long I’ve wanted to meet you. It’s been…well…”

“It’s been hell, I presume.”

She nodded, appreciating his concision.

“Exactly.”

They passed by two dogs nipping absently at each other’s tails. They regarded Ianthe with distaste that immediately subsided at the sight of Faendal, who walked past uninterested.

“So, my mother, she told me that when I got here –”

“Thia, right?”

“Yes. And my dad was Perenn.”

“ _Was_?” Faendal’s tone was far from shocked or mournful; if anything, it sounded inconvenienced.

“Was. He died the night I left. Did…did you ever meet them? My parents?”  
“Meet them? No.” Just before they reached the other end of Riverwood, opposite the gate through which Ianthe had entered but a few hours earlier, he made a sharp left up a worn-in path. “But I have second cousins in Haven. It’s how Thia got in touch with me, how they chose me as your contact.”

“You mean there are other Bosmer contacts out there?” she exclaimed, elated at the prospect, but his resulting expression didn’t deliver.

“Doubtful. I was just the only one they knew of, the only one they knew had made it across the border.”

“You can still help me out though, right? You can help me sort things out here?”

Faendal removed a silver key from around his neck and twirled the cord in circles as they approached a small, narrow dwelling up ahead. Ianthe shuddered at the thought of one of her kind living in between artificially construed wooden walls until realizing that she would, most likely, be engaged in the same predicament. She tried then to view his home through kind eyes, but it was character-less. Nothing indicated who lived there. Nothing indicated an attachment to a place she doubted she could ever call home.

“I _can_ help you. That’s why I’m here, of course,” he assured her as they scaled his porch and he opened his front door. “But…I…before we get to _that_ part, can I pick your brain a bit?”

“What about?”

His shoulders sunk into something closer to grief than she expected.

“It’s just…you’re the only one who’s made it through to me. So far. I want to know what’s it’s like back there. I haven’t got the slightest clue.”

“I’m…the only one?”

Faendal opened his door for Ianthe into an abode cast in darkness, into an unknown. He smiled at her sadly, as if he hated conveying this news. But, like he said, there was simply no one else around to do it.

“The only one. Y’ffre must think you’re special.”

Ianthe swallowed and adjusted her uncomfortable outfit.

“Or He just likes to see me suffer.”

Faendal clicked his teeth before ushering her inside.

“Y’ffre? Please. The omnipotent god of all things present, of all of our choices? The commander and calmer of chaos? _Surely_ not.”


	6. Interlude - the Golden Claw

##  Archaeological Report #43 – Conclusions (Re: Nordic Dragon Claw Excavations #32.1 – 42)

Conducted in the year 4E 107, Haafingar by Morngore Loreian (Licensed Skyrim Archaeologist of the Aldmeri Dominion, 1st Migratory Era)

*Subject(s) of Report: Coral Dragon Claw (1), Diamond Dragon Claw (1), Emerald Dragon Claw (1), Ruby Dragon Claw (1)

Date(s) of Discovery:

  1. Coral Dragon Claw – Tirdas, 1st of Frost Fall 4E 104
  2. Diamond Dragon Claw – Fridas, 31st of Last Seed 4E 100
  3. Emerald Dragon Claw – Sundas, 7th of Midyear 4E 103
  4. Ruby Dragon Claw – Sundas, 18th of Sun’s Height 4E 102



Summary (acc. Chief Archaeologist _Morngore Loreian_ ): According to all compiled Nordic lore drawn from the seized texts, Nordic prisoner testimony, patrons of Talos, and cave paintings, the Dragon Claws represent high ancient Nordic art. They were often used to seal the doors of ancient Nordic burial chambers. According to the script grafted along the palms and individual talons, the date of creation and usage would fallen within the second century of the First Era during Nord King Harald’s reign.[1] Unsurprisingly, despite the Claws’ valuable make-up and use of precious gemstones, they are unremarkable in construction and present little value beyond the usual retail of material commodities (not something out of the ordinary for a Khajit caravan). Testimonies point to a total of eleven Dragon Claws; I will defer to the Aldmeri Archaeologists’ Guild for further instruction as to whether the remaining seven installments are a worthy pursuit.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: three days prior to publication of Chief Archaeologist Loreian’s essay concerning the Dragon Claws, all four subjects were stolen from the Aldmeri outpost in Haafingar (Middas, 16th of Frost Fall, 4E 104).

[1] Fyrre, Tjurhane. “Reign of Harald (1E 113).” In _Frontier, Conquest and Accommodation: A Social History of Cyrodil_ , ed. Cyrodil: University of Gwylim Press, 30–39.

##  Humble Rejections

It was elven made. That much was obvious. It was pliable and true in her grasp, responded perfectly to her fingers, had the precise curvature to its length. Faendal retook his seat and watched Ianthe work the bow with her hands.

“You were on a hunting squad, weren’t you?” he inquired, blowing overtop one cup full of boiling liquid, the smell of which Ianthe vaguely recognized.

“How could you tell?”

“It’s in your eyes. Nords, Bretons, Khajit, Altmer, they don’t respect bows like we do.”

“There’s a lot of things that the Altmer don’t respect…” she spat. Faendal ignored the comment, however, and crossed his legs beneath each other. He looked equal parts peculiar and meditative in his stance.

“What rank were you?”

“Second in command. Haven’s First Silver Brigade.”

“Shit. You’re young, aren’t you?”

Ianthe had long forgotten the pleasure that came with confiding one’s Bosmer Hunters’ rank to someone who understood its worth. She grinned.

“Forty next month, I think. What date is it?”

“By whose calendar?” Faendal laughed.  
“Either. I know Skyrim’s.”

Faendal’s eyes flicked to a bundle of papers attached by a nail to one of his stone walls.

“Today is the… _seventeenth_ of Last Seed.”

“Then I’ll be forty on the first of Frostfall,” she declared, suddenly relieved to have gained the knowledge. “And you?”

Faendal chuckled. “A bit forward, huh?”

“You asked me first.”

“I did, I did…” he conceded. “Fifty-one on the tenth of Sun’s Dusk.”

Ianthe placed the bow delicately against the leg of her chair. “Well, you don’t look a day over forty- _five_.”

Faendal reached across the way and handed Ianthe a clay cup. She peered into its murky, greenish contents and her stomach moaned, though she waited for an explanation before downing it.

“Woodhearth’s blend. But with my mother’s twist. Crushed hyacinthe petals.”

Her first sip was floral and hot. It warmed her insides and spread in tendrils throughout her chest. She settled deeper into her chair.

“I’m sorry. About Perenn. He was a good man, from what I heard,” Faendal said, meaning it, sincere, despite being doused in loss and mourning himself, so much that Ianthe judged him a tad numb. It was different than her slowly rekindling ability to shrug things off till the point of explosion; he simply absorbed and processed that which he endured at an alarmingly fast rate.

“He taught me how to read the Skyrim calendar ages ago. Always said that I would need it one day,” she recalled. “Hate to admit that he was right, of course.”

“What, was he some kind of psychic? Would have been nice of him to warn us about the Scourge.”

“He wouldn’t have kept the knowledge to himself. He always loved telling stories,” Ianthe mused and waited for Faendal to continue. They’d accomplished little beyond nostalgic small talk.

“So…what all do you know about Skyrim?” he began. “Or, rather, what _don’t_ you know? What questions do you have?”

Ianthe chuckled to herself before taking another sip. “Oh, where to begin. I guess…does the Nordic accent get easier on the ears?”

“Not one bit,” he quipped back.

“And are they all so violent?”

“Lately, yes.”

“Do they hate wood elves here?”

Faendal stopped to think. “Not usually.”

“Do any of them worship Y’ffre?”

He stooped his own face into his cup. Ianthe knew, by the gesture alone, that the answer to her question was a “no.”

“You’ll have to move past traditional Y’ffre practices,” he advised. Plain and sterile. Unbothered. “You can’t live in Skyrim without sinning a bit.”

“You call this _a bit_?” she retorted, motioning to the entirety of his cabin.

“Hey, if you can find rent out in Skyrim that’s this cheap on a hunter’s wage, then you’ll realize that asking Y’ffre for forgiveness is much easier than asking Him for permission,” he said, moving toward the same Skyrim calendar and, rising from his chair, removing a necklace from the nail through which the sheets of parchment were impaled. He tossed it to Ianthe. It housed a large metal charm in its center onto which was engraved a picture of a large oak tree with an old elven face scribed into the trunk: Y’ffre’s classical image as a Graht-oak.

“My mother’s. Gave it to me a few days before I left for Skyrim,” Faendal explained. “I still believe. Pray every day.”

“Did she come with you? Gerdur said you lived alone.”

“No. If my family had come with me, I wouldn’t have them holed up in a place like _this_.” He shook his head. “Not that I don’t like it here. Riverwood is fine. It’s good. It’s easy. It’s –”

“Peaceful,” Ianthe suggested.

“Peaceful, sure.” Faendal cleared his throat. “I escaped to Skyrim about fifteen years ago. The vampires didn’t make it to Woodhearth right away, believe it or not. My uncle and I were leading a hunter’s troop across the plains toward Elden Root when they spotted us. A big fleet. So we ran.”

“You ran? Just like that?” Ianthe had endured several days’ worth of planning leading up to her departure that was cut short only by her father’s untimely demise.

“What else could we do? If we went back home, we’d lead them straight to the village. My uncle and I made it across. The rest of the troop weren’t as lucky.”

“And…” Ianthe was afraid to ask it, but words tended to come a bit _too_ naturally to her command. “And what happened of him? Your uncle?”

“Stormcloak killed him. Just as we crossed through Bruma in Cyrodil. Crazy asshole made it across the border and got himself lost, I suppose. Said he was killing every elf he saw as a _true Nord of Skyrim!_.”

Ianthe must have made a face as he imitated their blasted accent, for Faendal dropped the sudden severity of his tone and demeanor and grinned, toothy and wry.

“Don’t worry. The Nord is no longer with us.”

“But the rest of your family. Did you ever hear from them?”

“A letter reached me when I was holed out in Riften for a few months. Oh. Riften…um, it’s another Hold. Southeast of here. The letter was from my mother. She said my elder brother and father were dead and that she and my sister were about to start the journey to Skryim. They wanted to meet me in the southernmost region of the Rift.”

Ianthe’s throat, once more, tightened, opened and shut and swallowed the dry, palpable tension. “How long ago was that?”

“Almost fourteen years ago.”

In between a sudden gushing of sympathy for her kin, a panic overtook Ianthe. It made her limbs rigid and cold. Fifteen years ago, the Scourge was but a blemish the various regions of the Valenwood still believed they could wipe clean, and yet the vampires had managed to claim so much of Faendal’s family. How was hers to survive? How was her own mother to survive fifteen years later, once the vampires had taken so much time and invested so much skill in their methodology? Their murders? Their genocide?

“I’m…I’m sorry, that’s –”

“I’m not trying to kill your spirits here,” Faendal interrupted, leaning forward now, gravely serious. “I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t care. But there’s still some hope in you. Somehow it wasn’t stamped out by that dragon. But, if I were you, I’d kill off your optimism sooner rather than later. The longer you let it bleed, the weaker you’ll end up. There’s then, and there’s now. No in between. No returning.”

“You really believe that?” she asked, meek in tone though strong in intent. It stunned Faendal, if only for a moment.

“I’m…working on it. Mostly I do. I’d kill for my sister, but if I went off on a goose chase for her, she’d kill me right back,” he said. “So, I mean it when I say that it’s pretty incredible to meet you, Ianthe, because I thought I was alone. Thought I always would be.”

“That doesn’t sound like an end to all hope. At least not to _me_ ,” she teased. She massaged the meat of her neck in an attempt to take away the pressure and the pain. She would save her tears for privacy, whenever such a blessing would come.

“It’s the damn Bosmer enthusiasm, I suspect. I’m not a hopeful person by nature. It’s just in my blood.”

“Well, I’ve doubled up then.”

Faendal grinned. “With that gung-ho attitude, you’ll fit in well around here.”

Suddenly, he blinked and peered from his seat out the window. The sun was hidden now, its tepid orange blaze replaced with purple twilight.

“Speaking of _fitting in_ , I think that someone like you, who’s used to the deep forests and such, would fit in well in Falkreath,” he remarked as he stood up and retreated toward a dresser. He threw open the drawers and removed several large pieces of old parchment. “You said you ran through there before getting picked up by those Imperials?”

“I did, yeah,” Ianthe answered. “You think they’d have me?”

“I have a connection with the inn’s owner there, Vinicia. I did some spare hunting and trading business for her last time I passed through. So, she owes me a favor. She could at least set you up with a room for a while, until you could get on your feet.”

“And I know Lod!” Ianthe exclaimed, enthused at the memory. “Lod! The blacksmith! The best blacksmith in the entire Hold!”

“Ah, I remember Lod,” Faendal reminisced and called over his shoulder. “Don’t know if he holds much sway down there, but it’ll at least bolster your reputation. He does _like_ you, right?”

“Yes. He sold me a quiver of arrows.”

“Good. Good. That’s good…” Still Faendal shuffled the parchments and held a quill between his teeth. From Ianthe’s vantage point she saw that he was sketching a map at a shocking pace. Slowly she stood to meet him.

“It’s only a day’s journey from here. Won’t take you long to –”  
“Wait,” Ianthe stated once she was standing just at Faendal’s shoulder. He’d stripped off his outer garments since arriving home and now wore a loose white tunic that hung about his gangly shoulders. “I can’t leave. Not yet.”

“Well, not _immediately_ ,” Faendal replied. “I don’t hate you _that_ much –”

“No. It’s not that,” she interjected. “I told Gerdur, and Hod, and Ralof that I would go to Whiterun to tell the ‘Harl’ about the dragon. They said he might send guards to Riverwood in case the dragon shows up again.”

“You mean the _Jarl?_ ” Faendal questioned. Ianthe pursed her lips.

“Yeah. Why, what did I say?”

Faendal, chuckling, abandoned his impromptu mapmaking with a raised eyebrow. Again, her father was painted all over his face.

“And you said you would go?”

“Yes…?”

“Why?”

“Because Ralof saved my life! And because Gerdur makes excellent bread,” Ianthe defended even as Faendal laughed at her expense.

“When did you plan on setting out?”

“As soon as I could. Tomorrow morning, probably.”

Faendal threw down his quill as the low chortle grew into a laugh and cascaded through his chest and into his shoulders. Ianthe hadn’t a clue what was funny but enjoyed the change in mood nonetheless; humor looked nice on him.

“And what’s the rush?” he asked.

“There’s no rush.” Ianthe leaned against the dresser and looked up to Faendal. Their eyes met, black to red, kin to kin. “I just like keeping busy. I get antsy easily.”

“Yeah, I bet,” he remarked before placing his index finger, dirtied fingernail and all, onto his chin. “Well, if that’s the case…I suppose it’ll give me some extra time in making your arrangements…and…yeah…”

He abandoned his post and retrieved the bow he’d offered Ianthe to examine, the one straight from the Valenwood the color of honey and Southpoint sunsets. He ran the thing in between his hands, thinking, and Ianthe watched him work.

“I made this myself, you know. Between Woodhearth and Falinesti,” he said. “A group of vampires jumped my uncle and I and broke the one I left home with.”

“It’s very well made,” Ianthe stated.

“Yeah, my uncle taught me how…”

Faendal, still gripping the bow in his left hand, migrated toward the front door and picked up a quiver of iron arrows that leaned against the door frame. It was a testament to the village of Riverwood’s safety, in Ianthe’s eyes, the ability to leave weapons out in the open. He trudged back over to her and extended both hands.

“You’re a good shot, obviously. Take these with you when you leave.”

Ianthe’s hands, meanwhile, stayed glued to her sides, stunned.

“Huh? No way. I can’t. I have a bow that I swiped from an Imperial back in Helgen, and I can use the gold from Orngar to buy more arrows –”

“No, you need that gold to last you in Whiterun. It’s much bigger than Riverwood. And bigger means more _expensive_.” He pressed the bow and arrows into Ianthe’s form. “Come on. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’ve got more than a shoddy Imperial weapon to your name.”

Ianthe gripped the two reluctant gifts and placed her hands overtop Faendal’s; his eyes perked in interest and she swore a twinge ricocheted through the tips of his ears.

“At least let me _earn_ them,” she insisted.

“How so?”

“Archer’s match. You and me.”

“What, now?”

Ianthe scoffed and finally snatched the items away from her partner. “Yes, _now_. What, did your eyesight go to the wolves just like the Nords? Can’t see well in the dark?”

Faendal sniggered once again before reaching into a nearby wardrobe. He removed a secondary bow and another quiver, which he laid taut and tidy around his back. He was the spitting image of the lead brigade elves Ianthe had sworn allegiance to in era’s past: tall, lean, perfect posture, adept hands, keen, all-seeing eyes.

“Don’t trash talk already. It isn’t becoming of a First Brigade’s second in command.”

Ianthe shoved him forward in jest towards the door, stringing her newly gifted quiver around her shoulders as they went.

“Oh, and what rank were you, sir Faendal of Woodhearth?”

“Second command of Woodhearth’s Golden Brigade, second only to uncle Amrien. Nothing special, Ianthe of Haven,” he purred in response. “Here. There’s a small shooting range just across the way, near Alvor’s forge. Winner takes the bow and the rest of the Bosmer venison jerky I made last week.”

Excitement and anticipation like beats of an ever-quickening drum pulsed into Ianthe’s throat. It was damn near impossible to beat him, should his hunters’ brigade status be true, but the prospect of a challenge so familiar was too nostalgic to resist. She missed competing, she missed the hunters’ brigades, she missed the thrill of out shooting her opponent, she missed the way her father praised her as the next greatest archer in all of Haven and beyond. And, stepping out into the twilight, walking behind the greatest, most accurate visage of Perenn Haven she could imagine, the ordeal brought hot, unavoidable tears to her eyes.

Faendal probably saw them, her tears, for Bosmer saw in low light, and they were trained to sense even the slightest of commotions from their prey. But he said nothing. Ianthe was beginning to appreciate that about him; should he demand that she confide too much in him, she might burst and would never be able to stop. And that would spoil the fun, of course.

“Who goes first?” Faendal announced, tone but a whisper now. Observing their surroundings, Ianthe gathered that much of the town’s populous was now snug in their beds. The torchlights were out; the streets were still; the chickens were contained within their pens.

“I’ll hold,” Ianthe offered. She tried to convey a false sense of grace, but really just wanted a better understanding of what, or whom, she was up against. Faendal saw straight through her, but his own Bosmer pride was leaking out of his own ears now, too, and he could do no less than oblige his kin.

“Right then.” He strotted toward a workbench and fence that separated the bluffs of Riverwood from the trickling brook and pointed westward. Stooped beneath a low-hanging willow tree Ianthe saw the target, a makeshift bullseye painted red and blue and yellow. She had a sneaking suspicion that it was of Faendal’s own design, mostly due to the fact that she had yet to see another member of Riverwood’s populous brandish a bow whatsoever.

“Twenty-five yards, two-inch marker. You see it?”

Ianthe did; a small black rectangle was pasted against the fabric of the target.

“You’re daring,” she remarked. “That thing is _quite_ small.”

“The great Nordic archer’s boast about hitting two-inch markers at twenty yards, and we all know that they’re basically all half-blind on a clear, sunny day,” Faendal retorted. He kicked his shoes into the hard dirt floor, planted himself firm. “We deserve a bit more of a challenge. Is that alright with you.”

Ianthe withdrew the Bosmer bow from her back and flexed its string as Faendal continued to position himself. “More than alright,” she replied.

Faendal nodded and notched an arrow in one fluid movement that even Ianthe, steaming with competition and steeped in pride as this was the only moment of self-aggrandizement she’d been afforded in quite some time, was compelled to admire. He was a stalk of wildlife standing deadly still in reverence to the stars above, a pillar of unwavering stone, the trunk of a tree onto which the Haven family had constructed their home…

And he struck true.

“That’s Golden Brigade, alright…” Ianthe murmured in awe. Faendal walked backwards, facing her, to retrieve the arrow and take note of his spot.

“Second nature!” he called back in jest before tugging the arrow loose and sliding it back into its quiver. “Your turn, miss Haven.”

Ianthe had been on more hunting expeditions than anyone in her brigade. She was a good shot, there was no denying it, but she wasn’t the best, contrary to her father’s exultations; she just loved doing it. Ianthe loved the smell of woodland mold and dirt and grime, loved the moist green shades that draped her eyes as though steeped in the grungiest lake water, loved the look that befell a stag’s eyes as its fate dawned upon its mind, one that was so similar to her own. Ianthe loved the completion of life’s cycle, loved partaking in it, loved feeling as though she had control over its proceedings. And she loved the looks of praise her troop hailed her as she recovered her hunt and the way Y’ffre would smile a little brighter at her success.

Faendal, in all his condemnations and gloom about the fate of their shared people, seemed ill-equipped to recreate that Bosmer cultural staple. He was talented beyond Ianthe’s wildest dreams, even beyond Perenn Haven’s assertions to their home and sister tribes that she would dominate them all one day in the art of archery, but there was no heart to his draw. No feeling behind his intake and release of breath. No spirit in the examination of his arrowhead.

When Ianthe shot, it was but a millimeter off-center when compared to Faendal’s, and he seemed loth to admit this to her. But she surrendered upon her own examination and made to hand him back the Bosmer bow.

“If we’d been on a real hunt, I still would’ve sliced the jugular,” she commented.

“Yes, you _do_ have a lot more force behind your shot than I do…” he contested, dribbling her barely-there arrow between his fingers. He only met her eyes when she shoved the bow into his chest and did her best to swallow her defeat. Perenn Haven, in all his grandiose stupor, had taught her to lose with grace, after all.

“Oh, come on, Ianthe –”

“We had a deal!” she protested. “Take the damn thing before I start drooling over it.”

He paused, thought, and retook the bow. It looked better in his hands, in the end; his skin was brighter than hers, his hands of a sturdier build; the tone of both complemented the light brown wood better than her flesh’s colder finish.

“You damn near had it,” he started again, looking guilty. “I mean, it was probably just the wind, and even so –”

“Ianthe?”

A stray voice called from their rear and both Bosmer turned to examine it. Gerdur, wrapped tight in a white cotton nightdress, her hair in two loose braids down her shoulders, waved to Ianthe from her porch, but a speck in the distance.  
“We’re all turning in for the night,” she announced. “Will you come inside soon?”

Ianthe was stunned by the sentiment and felt somewhat guilty for neglecting her temporary faux family.

“Yes! I’ll be right in!” she replied in a cadence reminiscent of her fifteen-year-old self more than anything. Gerdur bid the pair a nod and slid back inside her house. The window nearest the front door went from a glowing burnt orange to dusk.

“She’s been so sweet to me,” Ianthe hummed. “Her and Ralof both.”  
“You’ve taken a liking to Ralof?” Faendal questioned. “I thought you hated the Nordic accent, and he’s got the worst one of all.”

Ianthe shrugged. “It keeps me listening. Zone out for a second and I’m lost. Besides, I would not have made it here without him.”

“Yeah, that’s one hell of a story…” Faendal was shifting about his own person, though Ianthe did not watch him, as she was captivated by a slowly descending throng of fireflies buzzing about herself and her partner. “I feel like you’re downplaying it, too.”

Ianthe caught one of the insects on her index finger. “There isn’t much to say. I was about to be killed for no good reason, and a dragon swooped down to save the day.”

“And Ralof did tell you that dragons haven’t been around since the Dragon War from, well…hundreds of years ago?”

A hand was gripping Ianthe’s intestines and wrenching them down into her shoes, the shock so steep that she felt the crack of adrenaline throughout her veins. All at once she was no longer bonding with a brigade superior; she was back in the strange land, had the status of stranger, and had clearly been strung up in business that was far greater than she could have imagined without so much as a lifeline of familiarity beyond the companionship Faendal was so generously offering. The trembling overtook her once more, the same she endured during her introductions with Gerdur, and she gripped her throat for purchase.

Still intact. Not yet chewed through.

“He…he neglected to mention it.”

Faendal looked monstrously guilty now and in one great motion stripped himself of the lesser bow and practically wrapped it around Ianthe’s form before she could protest.

“It’s a story for another time. Hell, maybe Y’ffre is just so tired of Bosmer being killed that He brought a dragon back into the mix. You never know,” Faendal chortled even as undertones of stress wrecked his voice. “If you’re really going to Whiterun, then you’ll come to know all about dragons there. They’re a little obsessed.”

“I _am_ going,” she asserted. “And what are you doing? I don’t need your things, Faendal, I mean it –”

“You’re taking the shittier bow. No complaining,” he interjected. “And you’re going to get some rest before you set off tomorrow. You need supplies?”

Ianthe shrugged her shoulders again, much to the apparent chagrin of her immigration contact. “I mean, I suppose so. Gerdur said I was welcome to what they had, but I don’t want to take advantage of –”

“Yeah. Best to get you fitted with your own things,” he resolved. “Here. Tell you what. Tomorrow morning, the Riverwood Trader opens at eight. Meet me there at quarter past the hour and we’ll see if Camilla can’t hook you up with a deal on some provisions and a few potions.”

“What, are you close friends with her or something?”  
Even in the impending midnight sky, Ianthe watched as a fervid heat overtook the expanse of Faendal’s cheeks, bony ridges and all. It made her giggle, which he did not enjoy.

“I-I guess so. You could say that…” he muttered. “Whatever. Just don’t mention it.”

“Your secret is safe with me, grand archer,” she pestered, finally taking the gifted, lesser bow in full. “Thanks for this.”

“Don’t mention that, either.” He waved his hand in the direction of Gerdur’s house. “Now don’t keep Gerdur waiting. She’s a worrier. Probably won’t sleep till you’re snug in bed.”

She obeyed without question. A heavy exhaustion was looming over her head and, when combined with her strange mixture of enormous relief and dread for the unknown feature, it proved a lethally sleepy combination. Ianthe slid inside Gerdur’s residence without a sound and stripped down to the under-dress she’d been gifted. She took the bed farthest away from Gerdur and Hod and fell asleep to their nasaled Nordic snores, pretending instead it was the noise of the Valenwood Graht-oak trees swaying like divine entities in the scarce wind, speaking to her, whispering dreams and premonitions, blessings from Y’ffre Himself.

* * *

Gerdur, inquiring relentlessly about where Ianthe was headed off to at such a bright hour come the morning of Tirdas, finally fitted her wood elf guest with a pair of pants. Ianthe wasn’t sure what had tipped Gerdur off to her dress-induced discomfort, but she accepted the bundle of tawny fabric with evident thanks.

“I sewed them for Frodnar just a few weeks ago, but they came out much too long,” she explained as Ianthe tucked her tunic into the waistline and admired the fit. “I may not look it, but I’m much handier with an axe than I am a needle.”

“I think that’s lovely of you,” Ianthe assured her. Within a few more minutes she was bidding Gerdur farewell, exchanging another look of mutual understanding with the family cow, waving to Hod from across the small field of cabbages and sunflowers, and trotting down the main road. The chickens had escaped the pen again and the dogs – one of whom, Ianthe gathered, was named Stump – were chasing after their rickety orange legs. A young girl scampered after the commotion and wound around Ianthe a few times before apologizing and ducking behind the Sleeping Giant Inn.

“That’s Dorthe,” Faendal called. He was leaning lazily against the support posts of the Riverwood Trader and donned a tunic different from the one he’d worn yesterday; This one was of a richer green shade and was secured with a leather belt instead of a woven cord. “She and Frodnar are always chasing that damn dog of his.”

His ponytail was lower now, nearer the base of his neck, and it appeared as though his face had endured an intense scrubbing not too long ago. Ianthe, out of self-consciousness, ran her left palm up and down her skull, feeling the rumblings of hair begin to emerge. Should she have cleaned up better for the occasion?

“This is the place?” she asked. The Riverwood Trader was a tall, wide building that housed two stories. Ianthe assumed, given the limited residential space throughout Riverwood, that the shopkeepers lived in the above level and did business in the lower. She passed beneath the platform demarcating the first and second floors and gestured Faendal toward the door, pausing only to smirk at his hesitation.

“Y-yeah, this is the place,” he stammered. “After you.”

Unwilling to pry, Ianthe opened the shop’s front door and stepped inside. Much like at the Sleeping Giant Inn, she was immediately confronted with low torchlight, the vague smell of herbs and boiling meat, and a floor littered with trampled-down though still highly ornamental rugs. Before she could glean a good look at the wooden counter or hanging plumes of spice that dangled from the ceiling, however, she was bombarded by two very displeased voices.

“Well _one of us_ has to do _something_!”

“I said no!”

Faendal, looking bewildered, crept inside, using Ianthe’s minimal girth as cover.

“No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!”

“Well what are you going to do then, huh? Let’s hear it!”

“We are done talking about this –”

The man behind the counter, a bulbous-chested, dramatically-toned someone of middle age with a head of buzzed black hair, flicked his gaze toward Ianthe and Faendal. Immediately, the rage that lit up his face dissipated, like a candle snuffed out by a chilly breeze.

“Oh, a customer…” he stammered. “S-sorry you had to hear that…”

The subject of his anger, a woman just a bit taller than Ianthe with the same shade of hair and swarthy flesh, turned to face the newcomers. Her face was sharp in the right places, smooth in the best ones. She stared at Ianthe and Faendal with a combination of embarrassment, intrigue, and still boiling frustration which Ianthe immediately was compelled to soothe. She stared Ianthe down hard and, arriving at an unknown conclusion that appeared neither positive nor negative, nodded to Faendal.

“Faendal,” she hummed.

“Camilla,” he replied in a cadence very much not his own. “Hello there.”

The man cleared his throat; Ianthe jolted and began making her way to his counter.

“I don’t know what you overheard, but the Riverwood Trader is still open. Feel free to shop!”

Camilla sat down somewhere behind Ianthe. By the sound of her movement alone, Ianthe deduced that whatever had erupted between herself and the store owner was of grave importance. And, renewed by rest and the potential for excitement that day, she couldn’t keep her curiosity to herself.

“Did something happen…?” Ianthe asked and heard Faendal choking over his own tongue to try and repress her line of questioning.

“Yes, we did have a bit of a…a break-in. But! We still have plenty to sell!” the shopkeeper answered. “Robbers were only after one thing.”

“Robbers?” Faendal interjected, appearing to Ianthe’s right and leaning his forearms against the wooden counter. Ianthe felt shoved to one side. “Come now, Lucan. You’ve never had trouble like that here in Riverwood, not as long as I’ve been here.”

“Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, Faendal, but apparently we’re not safe here anymore, either,” Lucan replied. “It was an ornament they grabbed. Solid gold. In the shape of a dragon’s claw.”

“The only valuable thing in this big hunk of junk, if you ask me,” Camilla spat. Ianthe watched with something close to a laugh bursting at the edge of her lips as Lucan went through another full episode of rage, irritation, grief, and then release.

“Yes, I know you don’t quite like it here, _Camilla_ ,” Lucan answered. “But –”

“I could help you get the claw back,” Ianthe stated, startling herself with her own brevity and conversational risk. Lucan’s eyes widened at the prospect.

“You could?” he blinked.

“You _could_?” Faendal echoed.

“Wow. Well, I’ve got some coin coming in from my last shipment,” Lucan then finished. “It’s yours if you bring my claw back. Now, if you’re going to –”

“I’m sorry, brother, but just hold up a minute…” Camilla interposed, rising from her seat before a quaint fireplace. Now, as she approached Ianthe, she noticed that Camilla was more than a _bit_ taller; she was dangerously close to Faendal’s length. Both wood elves seemed to cower under her gaze.

“Who _are_ you?” she asked Ianthe. “You’re not familiar. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”

Ianthe stuck out her hand to shake. “Ianthe Haven. From the Valenwood. Close friend of Faendal’s here.”

Camilla smirked as she took Ianthe’s hand, shaking it only once before glancing to Faendal.

“Faendal’s got friends? That’s nice to hear,” she jived. “When did you come to town?”

“Just yesterday. I came with Ralof from Helgen.”

Camilla, suddenly, showed vivid interest. “You mean you escaped from the dragon at Helgen? That’s…that’s incredible. What was it like?”

“Camilla!” Lucan chastised. She pretended not to hear him.

“It was…in _tense_ ,” Ianthe decided upon as Faendal stared despondently at the floor. “But I’m just happy to have made it here safe and sound. Faendal is the reason I came, actually. He’s an immigration contact from the Valenwood. Helps loads of wood elves get situated once they reach Skyrim.”

Camilla regarded Faendal with a knowing, sultry gaze, though not one that insinuated any further delivery on the implied intentions. It was purely manipulative; Ianthe hoped Faendal noticed this.

“Does he, now? That’s very noble of you, Faendal,” she purred. “I can’t imagine why any Bosmer would want to leave a land that magical for someplace as drab as _Skyrim_ , of course. Is it true that you people live in trees? –”

“That’s quite enough, Camilla,” Lucan exclaimed. Amused by her brother’s insistence, Camilla resigned herself from the conversation, leaving Ianthe a bit speechless. Had Faendal really told her nothing of his past despite the burning interest he’d taken in her?

“Now, miss Haven. If you’re going to get those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town.”

“So this is your plan, Lucan?” Camilla called from beneath the neck of a bottle of mead.

“Yes, so now you don’t have to go, do you?” he retorted. “Oh, Faendal. Will you be joining Ianthe? I would feel just awful if a stranger to Skyrim went along and got herself killed by some petty thieves on her second day in town.”

Ianthe was growing quickly fond of Lucan and his mastery of the awkward exchange. She looked up to Faendal expectantly and knew he had no choice in the matter, especially as Camilla regarded him once more with a severe pair of hazel eyes touched flirtatiously by the fire light. He gulped, nodded, and gave Lucan a thumbs up in one foul swoop.

“S-sure thing, Lucan. We’ll have the claw back by sundown today.”

“Well, if that’s the case, I think our new helpers need a guide,” Camilla replied.

“What…no, I… I didn’t mean…Oh, by the Eight, _fine._ But only to the edge of town!” Lucan submitted.

Camilla stood up with a wink to all parties and darted behind the counter, much to her brother’s distaste. She emerged with an iron knife and an armload of red-tinged bottles.

“You’ll need these,” she insisted before dumping the potions into Faendal’s grasp and inserting the weapon gently between Ianthe’s fingers. “Bows are great and all, but you never know what can happen when you’re in a pinch.”

Without question Ianthe slid the knife into a sheath round her belt from Gerdur and the pair followed Camilla out the door, Ianthe fascinated by her commandeering nature, Faendal evidently petrified by it. He dawdled behind the two women without so much as an ounce of propriety to his stature.

“You’ll have to go through town and across the bridge to get to Bleak Falls Barrow,” she described as she pointed north. “You can see it from here, though. The mountain just over the buildings. But I’m sure Faendal knows all about the Barrow, of course.”

He choked once more; “Y-yes. I’ve skirted past it. During my, uh…my hunts.”  
“Those thieves must be mad, hiding out there. Those crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows _what_ else.”

“Sounds lovely,” Ianthe muttered, much to Camilla’s pleasure, who threw her head back and laughed across Riverwood’s central thoroughfare.

“I wonder why they only stole Lucan’s golden claw,” she pondered as they passed beneath the first archway from which Ianthe had first entered Riverwood. “I mean, we have plenty of things in the shop that are worth just as much coin. But…don’t tell him I said that.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Lucan found the claw about a year after he opened the store. He never quite explained where he got it. He’s a tricky one.”

“I read once that the Altmer excavated lots of similar claws,” Faendal finally interjected as he squished the last remaining potion into his satchel. “Maybe that’s how he came across it in his trades.”

Camilla shrugged, impartial. “Perhaps so.”

They reached the bridge just as a surge of thrill began pulsing through Ianthe’s person. Camilla indicated toward the first of the many mountain peaks as their destination.

“The path up that mountain to the northwest leads to Bleak Falls Barrow,” she explained. “I guess I should get back to my brother now and leave you both to it. He’ll throw a fit if I take too long. Such a child…”

She sighed before stepping back behind Faendal and Ianthe, the sunlight causing her to squint and prop a hand above her eyes. Ianthe relished in the warmth it painted along her own backside.

“May Mara bless you for agreeing to help us. I know you’re _incredibly_ busy, Faendal. So thank you for taking time out of your hunting. I’ll remember this.”

Faendal scratched the back of his head and undid a portion of his slicked back hair. Ianthe was sure Camilla saw this.

“Not a problem. Thanks for lending us all the potions.”

Then, silently, Camilla performed a curtsey with her tattered dress and tunic and began the short trek back to Riverwood. Faendal and Ianthe watched her leave in a stupefied silence, one that Ianthe was eager to break via an onslaught of questions her partner would absolutely find too intrusive for his solitary nature. When she finally was out of sight, he let out a long sigh from his lungs and started making his way across the bridge.

“So…” Ianthe started. “ _That’s_ Camilla?”

“Camilla Valerius,” he clarified. “She and her family moved her some ten years ago. They’re Imperials from Cyrodil. But her parents both died of Rockjoint. It’s common around these parts, and they were old, anyways. So her and her brother run the shop.”

Ianthe wrapped her arm around Faendal’s sharp shoulders as they traversed the remainder of the bridge, unimpressed by his false stagnancy as much as he was irritated by her hold on his person.

“Is that all?”

“Her life doesn’t appear to be that ent _hralli_ ng…” he snapped.

“Though I bet you’d like to be a part of it. A _permanent_ part.”

Faendal finally shoved off her grip and shook his head. The motion further undid his once tidy hair. Ianthe found that the bedraggled look suited him a bit better.

“Sure. Doesn’t matter though. She’s taken a greater interest in that bard son of a bitch _Sven_ …” He rubbed both of his hands down the length of his face. “And _you_ too, for that matter. She doesn’t usually entertain conversation for that long.”

Ianthe shook her head and brushed off the suggestion, ignoring deliberately the flutter of her heart; Camilla Valerius _had_ boasted the most elegant of Skyrim faces she’d seen thus far.

“Doubtful. Not my type. Besides, you can do better, I expect. You _deserve_ better.”

Faendal pointed up through a skinny mountain pass framed by jagged rock edges and littered with tree roots and invisible patches of ice. There was a tiny gleam to his face as he emerged from his impromptu dejection, one that Ianthe couldn’t read amidst the morning glow. That and he was remarkable about hiding his true feelings in _most_ cases, it seemed.

“I’ll have to think on that,” he returned. “And I’ll have a long while to do so. We’ve got a trek up ahead.”

“Unless I talk your ear off the entire way there,” Ianthe suggested before bounding ahead. She didn’t catch whatever expression he made in her haste, but predicted it was just as wry as ever.

And up they went toward Bleak Falls Barrow, the journey dotted only by the occasional cairn and one lone wolf that gave them no trouble; Faendal silenced it with an arrow between the eyes that tragically broke upon retrieval. Faendal wasn’t sure where the cairns came from, per se, but advised Ianthe that they were often times the only marker she had that would indicate she wasn’t miserably lost and, thus, she ought to pay them mind. He drew her away from her examination of one only to indicate toward a towering structure built into the impending mountainside: a crooked stone tower that sprouted in a spiral formation dotted by open slots for windows and a makeshift roof shielding the crow’s nest from the fierce wind gusts.

The snowdrifts grew the closer they approached, as did a small throng of nobodies congregating at the base’s front door in front of a pitiful looking fire. Ianthe clambered forwards until Faendal drew her back into the snow behind a rocky bluff, concern in his eyes.

“Bandits,” he hissed. “They’ve seized control of the mountain pass, it seems.”

“How can you tell?” Ianthe questioned as he removed his bow. He found the statement almost preposterous.

“ _How can I tell_? You’re really asking me that after you were nearly beheaded just for wandering around the Falkreath countryside?”

Ianthe shrugged and slowly, albeit reluctantly, removed her own weapon from her back and reached for an arrow.

“I just assumed that you folks had really strict immigration laws…”

“It’s been a hellish wasteland ever since the Stormcloaks declared war on the Empire,” Faendal sighed, not particularly upset over this fact, only vexed. Ianthe strived to mimic such an attitude. “See the crow’s nest?”

Ianthe followed his vision and saw what appeared to be an elven woman stooped atop the warped stone structure, her eye seemingly trained on herself and Faendal even as they spoke. They were alert. And angry.

“Everyone is poor and hungry and lawless these days. They’ll try to rob and cut us open if we get too close. Besides, you need real armor. We can take their loot once we’re through with them.”

“Well then let me do it,” Ianthe interjected, ducking properly underneath the bluff for cover. She wanted nothing less than to engage the bandits, but the mystified Skyrim foreigner inside her mind spoke above her typical conscience. “You got the wolf, after all.”

Faendal resigned; “If you insist.”

She notched an arrow and aimed for the nearest bandit, an orc at least three times her general size. His brow was big enough to fit the iron arrowhead, and when she fired it struck true. His greenish figure crumpled in a heap so suddenly that the air caught in Ianthe’s throat just as his companions shrieked in terror.

It was a familiar noise. Suddenly, as Ianthe stared into the snowy landscape, the mountains became trees and the bandits morphed into her kin. They all had elven builds, eyes as black as pitch, and bows strung across their backs. They looked like her family. They looked like Bosmer. They watched Ianthe kill her brethren with terror and betrayal across their features. Their throats turned red, flush with gore. A screech rang out in the night. The hordes were coming. Red eyes. Long, talon-like fingernails. Mouths stained brownish red. Thia and Perenn Haven had been found out. Discovered. Her father’s gashed neck was leaking through the floorboards and dripping down the tree bark as she slid down the ladder and –

“Ianthe! You with me?”

Faendal had notched his own arrow and fired, only half-looking at the next target. It embedded in her forearm and she staggered for but a moment and kept up her charge. He yanked Ianthe back into reality with confusion on his face, yet before she could act the second bandit was on top of them. Another orc, she swung a mace high above her head and sent it cracking down. Both Faendal and Ianthe managed to roll out of the way just as the spikes hit the hard, icy stone. Ianthe whipped out the knife Camilla had gifted her as Faendal gathered some distance. The orc sneered at Ianthe’s meager attempt at a threat.

“We’ve got a Bosmer of our own, we do,” the orc hissed. “Best archer in the Hold. Though you boast a lucky shot, don’t you, lass?”

“I’ve been told as much,” Ianthe answered, breathless, just as the orc swung a second time. Ianthe’s dodge sent her skidding back to the floor. She swung and swung, cackling as Ianthe squirmed like an insect at her mercy, until Ianthe managed to roll around to the back of her and slice the orc’s Achilles tendon right open. She fell with a howl and the dynamic shifted; Ianthe wrestled the mace from her large, meaty hands and, just as the bandit’s eyes widened with sudden realization and horror, she slammed the weapon into her grey-blue forehead, arms aching with the weighty effort.

No time for celebration, however; just as Ianthe stood up to find Faendal, a slice rang through her shoulder. A steel-tipped arrow ripped through the first two layers of skin, tearing her tunic to shreds, and she winced, grasping the new pool of crimson more out of shock than pain.

“Faendal?”

She glanced back up at the crow’s nest just as an arrow hit the throat of her aggressor. The elf, a Bosmer as the orc had described, collapsed where she stood, invisible behind the perch’s stone defenses. Faendal stood at the front stoop of the fortress and, waiting a moment to make sure no more bandits emerged from inside, waved Ianthe forward.

“You alright?” he called as she gingerly approached, careful to avoid looking at the deceased male orc whose ichor had stained the snow red. “You zoned out on me.”

“Yeah…” she breathed. “I’m…I’m fine. Just not used to…to…”

“More killing?”

She nodded. “Haven’t done it before. Besides animals, of course. Only _seen_ it happen.”  
“Makes me wonder which is worse, you know?”

Ianthe didn’t, not anymore, and she stopped to wonder if Faendal’s tepid disposition was something to be appreciated or not. Had he been presumptuous about the demeanor of the bandits? Had they only engaged because she’d taken the life of their friend? How worth it was this golden claw, anyways?

“There’s spare armor in here,” Faendal announced as he kicked open a nearby chest. Inside were several leather hides, braces, and knee pads, all of which were stained just as Gerdur’s tunic now was. “See which fits. It’ll keep you from getting beat up anymore.”

Ianthe ducked inside the tower. Icy breezes infiltrated the structure through crevices in the stone walls. Tucked around the edge of the staircase was a wooden dresser, which caught Faendal’s interest. As he sifted through the contents, Ianthe stripped off her pants and tunic, exchanging the thin material for the shoddily crafted hide and leather trappings.

“Hey, they’ve got a map of Bleak Falls Barrow in – by _Y’ffre_ …”

Faendal had turned as Ianthe’s pants hit the floor. She stood, crouched and shivering, as he struggled to look away. Squinting, she saw a pinkish hue bloom from ear to ear along his face and planned to draw as much attention as possible to it.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I thought you –”

“You thought what?”

Ianthe tugged the new pants up to her waist and, admiring the fit, waited for Faendal to find the words. As his tongue scampered along his lips and against his teeth, she raised her shirt over her head and flung it to the side, chest bare to the elements and to Faendal’s pure, unobstructed humiliation.

“I…gods, I’m…I’m sorry, I’ll just go –”

“Come _on_ , Faendal,” she dragged while tying the leather front to her torso. “You can kill an archer standing fifty feet above you without any trouble, but you can’t handle a brief moment of _nudity_? How un _pro_ fessional…”

“It’s not that!” he protested, somewhere between running back outside and remaining inside to defend himself. “I…I mean, I’m not…I’m not _offended_ , it’s only that –”

“Did you _like_ what you saw?”

When Faendal didn’t refute fast enough, Ianthe’s gut tumbled. Like a bird sputtering to flight for the first time, she realized, and sympathy washed over her.

“Oh. _Oh._ Faendal, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun –”

“No. I’m sorry. Inappropriate of me.”

Ianthe was now toying with a bracer, trying with her nondominant hand to tie it to her wrist. The process was futile and, with wide, kind eyes, she motioned for Faendal’s assistance. Blushing in full now, he obeyed, and went to work doing up the rest of her stolen armor.

“No, it’s my fault,” she assured him. “Now I know why you’ve been so nice to me, though.”

“What, you don’t think I’m a nice guy?” he teased, the gloom still evident in his voice.

“I just don’t think you’d go giving all of your immigration contacts their own bow and quiver, is all,” she answered. “Well, unless Camilla was another one of your contacts.”

“She couldn’t be less interested in me if I were another neighborhood dog running around town,” he muttered.

“So I was your backup plan, then?”

Faendal faltered in doing up the second bracer. Laughing, Ianthe clamped her free hand down onto his person, nesting in the space between his shoulder and neck, and commanded his eyes forward.

“I’m only messing with you. Besides, I get it. Camilla is nice on the eyes, if not a bit rough on the ears and general conversational etiquette.”

Faendal turned Ianthe’s wrists over in his palms to examine his work. “What, you wanna stiffen the competition for her even more or something?”

Ianthe shrugged; “I mean, I may. If I stick around Riverwood long enough. If my parents could ever forgive me for not taking up with another wood elf.”

Faendal was officially stumped and Ianthe was quick to relieve him.

“It’s not that I don’t find you handsome, Faendal,” she said. “I’m just…not acclimated to your kind. You’re lacking in the…”

“…feminine department?” he suggested with a familiar quirk in his eye.

“If you want to be reductive about it, yes, exactly,” she replied. “So forgive me if I don’t take your embarrassing, masculine, anti-nude tendencies into account.”

Faendal laughed before unfolding the aforementioned map of Bleak Falls Barrow. Ianthe watched intently as relief and surrender washed over his face. An impasse had been cleared; her pulse returned to the calmest it could be, given the circumstances. She couldn’t entertain the unspoken social quirks of an unrequited crush, not while surrounded with the first of her victims in Skyrim. The forehead of Faendal’s slain Bosmer continued to leak into the floor. Her blood ran the stonework red, rivers of ichor like veins in a giant deity. Ianthe observed their floor until Faendal called for her outside and wondered when, if ever, things would get easier.


End file.
